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Poems by James Hyslop

... With a Sketch of his Life, and Notes on his Poems, By the Rev. Peter Mearns

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LXVII. To Caroline.
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LXVII.
To Caroline.

Fair daughter of Erin, O call not me mad,
Tho' oft I seem pensive when others are glad;
And O do not blame me tho' that soft harp of thine,
That cheers other hearts, should bring sadness to mine.
There are bright clouds, and dark ones, thine eye cannot see,
O'ershadow the heart of a wanderer like me;
Bright visions of loveliness visit the mind,
Whose vanishing beauty leaves sorrow behind.
Those songs of thy minstrel to me once were sung
By a maiden in Scotland bewitching and young:
As she sung them she asked, with a white thrilling hand,
“Will you think upon me in a far distant land?”
Yes! well may I think, for on earth there are few
Have been blest with a fair one so fond and so true.
Her voice and her features were much like thine own;
But her hair and her eyes of a far deeper brown.
Sing on, thou enchantress; for dear, dear to me
Are the visions you bring me across the wide sea,
I will gaze on thy beauty, and think my young bride
Is smiling and singing again by my side.