'E'er this (my Dear) will reach thy lovely Hand,
' I shall have ever left my Native Land;
'Cast out from thee, no matter where I roam,
' The Tryal's o'er, Iv'e suffer'd All at Home.
'To rough unpolish'd Cells, I now retire,
'And leave behind fond Hope, and fierce Desire;
' Yet Love will there maintain a languid Flame,
'Like Lamps in Tombs, tho' useless, burn the same.
' Did my  now her Pilgrim view,
'She'd own the Wonders mighty Love can do;
' Wou'd say, I in this Parting suffer'd more
'Than ever wretched Mortal did before.
' Did she my Trembling, and my Tortures see,
'I'm sure she'd pity and remember me,