Page:Repository of Arts, Series 1, Volume 01, 1809, January-June.djvu/242



Go, lie thee down, old man, and die!
 * For fate prepares th’ unerring dart:

Come then, thou last expiring sigh,
 * And prove the warning of my heart!

My heart is such a changeling grown,
 * It weighs so heavy in my breast,

I scarce can think it is my own
 * Some other is my bosom’s guest.

But whose it is I do not know:
 * Mary, I’m sure it is not thine;

For not one joy does it bestow,
 * To no one good does it incline.

No, ’tis not thineI would it were,
 * For then I never should complain;

Then I should all those virtues share,
 * Which in thy gentle bosom reign.

Then I the tender thought should know,
 * The wish from sordid int'rest free,

The sigh that heaves for others’ woe,
 * And friendship’s faithful sympathy.