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Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, Thar lov'st to greet tho early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget! Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past,— Thy image at our last embrace;— Ah! little thought wo 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissd his pebbled shore, O‘erhung with wild woods, thick'ning, green The fragrant bitch; and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round tho raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to bo prest, The birds sing love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care: Time but tho impression strongor makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.