 | The poetical works of George Keate |  |
141
THE ADIEU:
Presented to a young Lady at Geneva, on her setting out to return to England.
And is, alas! the parting hour at hand
That calls Thee Fair-one to thy native land?
Will this sweet Lake, these Mountains charm no more?
Or keep Thee longer on a foreign shore?
Ah! no—this Lake, these Mountains plead in vain;
'Tis England asks Thee—Why should I complain?
That calls Thee Fair-one to thy native land?
Will this sweet Lake, these Mountains charm no more?
Or keep Thee longer on a foreign shore?
Ah! no—this Lake, these Mountains plead in vain;
'Tis England asks Thee—Why should I complain?
True to that worth which long shall be rever'd,
I'll range these scenes thy presence so endear'd;
Recall those jocund hours of social mirth
That gave to Pleasure, gave to Friendship birth;
Too soon they fled! too strongly leave behind
Their fond remembrance to distress the mind!
I'll range these scenes thy presence so endear'd;
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That gave to Pleasure, gave to Friendship birth;
Too soon they fled! too strongly leave behind
Their fond remembrance to distress the mind!
Oft still shall Fancy meet Thee in our walk,
In the cool breeze still listen to thy talk,
And roving pensive the imbow'ring shade,
Half hope to find Thee, thou excelling Maid:
Alas! our wonted walk no more will please,
The shade imbow'ring, or the cooling breeze!—
In the cool breeze still listen to thy talk,
And roving pensive the imbow'ring shade,
Half hope to find Thee, thou excelling Maid:
Alas! our wonted walk no more will please,
The shade imbow'ring, or the cooling breeze!—
Thus, when some gallant Vessel to the gale
Leaving the Port, unfurls each swelling sail,
The Merchant views her, less'ning as she flies,
Till lost in Mist she mocks his aking eyes:
Nor even then can end his anxious Care,
His Hope, his Int'rests—nay—his All is there!
Leaving the Port, unfurls each swelling sail,
The Merchant views her, less'ning as she flies,
Till lost in Mist she mocks his aking eyes:
Nor even then can end his anxious Care,
His Hope, his Int'rests—nay—his All is there!
| The poetical works of George Keate | |