Page:Adelaide.pdf/21

Rh

VIII.

They wander'd thro' a scene, where every spot Was trac'd with some soft record of the heart; Where the eye could not glance, but it must gaze On some memorial of their happiness. Here wing'd with pleasure moments fled, as in A magic circle, where hours past, but left No sorrow for their loss—perish'd like flowers Dying in odours, while fresh blooms succeed: But these were dreams of blessedness departed; And the long lingering looks they now were giving, Perchance would be their last. Another day, And, Adelaide, thy love will be afar. The arm now round thee thrown so tenderly, Will be the reddest in the ranks of death; That voice, that sinks so sweetly on thy ear,