Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, My Mary to love once so dear, In the shade of her bower I remember the hour She rewarded those vows with a Tear. By another possest, she may live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear. Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, May we meet as we part, with a Tear. When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow the splendor of woe, Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, All I ask--all I wish--is a Tear. * * * * * L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth, Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat, "Friendship is Love without his wings!" Through few, but deeply checker'd years, What moments have been mine! Now half-obscured by clouds of tears, Now bright in rays divine; Howe'er my future doom be cast, My soul enraptured with the past, To one idea fondly clings; Friendship! that thought is all thine own, Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!" Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Their branches on the gale, Unheeded heaves a simple grave, Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play From yonder studious mansion rings; But here when'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove "Friendship is Love without his wings!" Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But these are now decay'd; For thine are pinions like the wind, No trace of thee remains behind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings. Away, away! delusive power, Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings. Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire, In mind again a boy. Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"