Classic Poem

Oh, think not, belov'd one! that absence can ever
Efface from my bosom the memory of thee;
Or that true hearts like ours, when fate bids them sever,
With less ardour will love for the cruel decree!
Tho' the dark frown of fortune hath made me a ranger,
And the sport of the billows I'm destined to be,
Yet, dear girl, believe me, nor distance nor danger,
Can blot from my heart the sweet memory of thee.

When the dæmon of storms howls aloud o'er the ocean,
And the dash of the waves seems the knell of my doom,
The memory of thee lulls my bosom's emotion,
And the thought of thy safety's a star through the gloom:

When the tempest is past, and the moon in full splendour,
As now, gilds with beauty the Isles of the sea;
In the scene of enchantment there's naught that can render
A balm to my soul, like the memory of thee!