by James Thomson (1700-1748)
Tell me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam
And sometimes share thy lover’s woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hover’st round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,
And every tear is full of thee,
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,
Oh visit thou my soothing dream!