AND is it so? and hast thou thought,
Beloved one, of me--
Deep, in my bosom's inmost cells,
That thought shall treasured be:
And often, to that secret haunt,
Shall memory repair,
To watch, with more than miser's joy,
The wealth, that's buried there.
At midnight, shall that blessed thought,
Compose my throbbing heart,
And bid the spectre-cares, that haunt
That holy hour, depart;
And when the morn, rejoicing, brings
Its glad and golden ray,
That recollected thought shall lend,
New lustre, to the day.
Yes, Mary! deep within my breast,
It shall forever lie:
Like sacred relic, unprofaned,
By cold, or common, eye:
And often, shall my pilgrim thoughts,
Frequent that hallowed shrine,
For hallowed, must I deem the spot,
That harbours aught of thine.
Thither, shall fond affection, oft,
Her choicest offerings bring;
And ardent Hope, oft linger there,
To plume her weary wing;
And thence, her strains be wafted, oft,
The syren Memory;
And this, the sweetest of them all,
"To say, I've thought of thee."