 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
137
TO MARY.
I fondly thought to call thee mine,
But we are doomed to sever;
Then may the purest joys be thine,
If thou art blest, I'll not repine,
Though lost to me for ever.
But we are doomed to sever;
Then may the purest joys be thine,
If thou art blest, I'll not repine,
Though lost to me for ever.
May he who holds thy plighted vow,
Screen thee from every sorrow;
May smiles of pleasure light thy brow,
And joy's gay wreath that decks it now,
Be fresher still to-morrow.
Screen thee from every sorrow;
May smiles of pleasure light thy brow,
And joy's gay wreath that decks it now,
Be fresher still to-morrow.
Whate'er my anguish, be thou blest,
With love and truth to guide thee,
Approved, adored, beloved, caressed,
No pang of sorrow in thy breast,
No earthly joy denied thee.
With love and truth to guide thee,
Approved, adored, beloved, caressed,
No pang of sorrow in thy breast,
No earthly joy denied thee.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |