thought we 'twas our st!
ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,
o'erhung with wild-woods, thiing green;
the fragrant bird hawthorn hoar,
'twin'd amorous round the raptur'd se:
the flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
the birds sang love on every spray;
till too, too soon, the glowi,
procim'd the speed of winged day.
still o'er these ses my mem'ry wakes,
and fondly broods with miser-care;
time but th' impression stronger makes,
as streams their els deeper wear,
my mary! dear departed shade!
where is thy bli
To Mary In Heaven(2/3)