TO
A
LADY
,
WHO
FREQUENTLY
WITHDREW
FROM
COMPANY
.
WHEN
you
retire
from
every
eye
,
Is
it
to
breathe
the
secret
sigh
,
Or
drop
the
silent
tear
?
Does
Fancy
,
to
some
former
day
,
Start
from
the
present
hour
away
To
meet
Remembrance
dear
?
Remembrance
!
—
Ah
!
my
friend
beware
;
Thou
dost
not
know
the
weeping
Fair
;
Clad
in
a
robe
that
Night
has
wove
,
And
spangl'd
o'er
with
tears
of
love
,
She
comes
,
with
many
a
wither'd
flower
—
With
many
a
token
from
the
hour
;
On
this
she
looks
with
streaming
eye
,
On
that
she
breathes
the
softest
sigh
;
But
not
the
breath
of
purest
morn
,
Nor
the
round
dew-tear
on
the
thorn
,
Could
e'er
again
its
bloom
restore
;
The
flower
once
faded
blooms
no
more
.
See
,
at
the
thought
,
she
pensive
stands
,
See
,
see
!
she
wrings
her
wither'd
hands
;
Too
well
she
knows
the
hours
we
mourn
Can
never
,
never
more
return
.
Then
,
ah
!
my
friend
,
no
more
retire
,
This
pensive
Mourner
ever
shun
;
If
thou
shalt
hearken
to
her
lyre
Thy
peace
for
ever
is
undone
.
Or
if
thy
wayward
fancy
loves
To
meet
her
in
the
silent
groves
,
When
her
wrapt
eye
is
bound
for
flight
Along
the
dreary
vault
of
night
;
And
fixing
,
near
some
muffl'd
star
,
Waits
for
the
Day's
triumphal
car
;
Or
sees
the
Moon
,
by
clouds
oppress'd
,
Tear
the
wet
mantle
from
her
breast
,
This
I
allow
:
yet
even
here
,
E'en
in
the
blissful
lunar
sphere
,
Amid
the
clouds
of
varying
forms
,
In
gilded
pomp
,
or
lowering
storms
,
She
still
calls
back
the
former
hour
,
The
future
seems
on
thee
to
lower
:
No
tree
can
wave
his
leafy
head
,
Nor
lilies
slumbering
on
their
bed
,
Nor
fragrant
roses
blooming
gay
,
Nor
morning
flow'ret
droop
away
,
But
all
have
secret
power
to
tell
A
tale
of
friends
,
ah
!
lov'd
too
well
.
Shun
,
shun
the
"
matron
sage
and
holy
,
"
Shun
,
shun
such
tearful
melancholy
!
Heed
not
the
whisper
of
her
sigh
,
Nor
meet
the
pathos
of
her
eye
,
Else
shall
the
gayest
scenes
appear
Veil'd
in
a
thin
translucent
tear
.