Classic Poem

Oh, Mary, when afar from thee,
And mountains rise between,
And I am wandering pensively
Through many a varied scene;

It soothes to bid my fancy stray,
On freest wings, to thee,
And cherish all the memories
So very dear to me.

I view again thy face, thy form,
Thy look, thy ready smile,
I hear again those magic words,
That all my soul beguile.

I sit beside thy chair, and gaze,
Upon thy willing face,
And there behold the speaking glow
Of that mysterious grace,

Which binds my constant soul to thee,
And makes, through all life's years,
All that can make thy heart rejoice,
Or bathe thy cheek with tears,

Awake in me the thrill of joy,
Or bow my soul in grief;
And makes me strive to make thee blest,
Or yield thy pangs relief.

Yes, Mary, I will love but thee,
Of all thy lovely race;
Our hearts shall find in life one home,
In death one resting place.

And, if I linger now afar,
'Tis fortune's hard decree--
Oh! were the dove's swift pinions mine,
How would I fly to thee.

Those charms, with memory's feeble light
On me would cease to beam;
Their rays, with present, perfect warmth,
Upon my heart would gleam.

Thus, by thy side, so sweetly near,
How blest to pass my life;
To press thy gentle hand in mine,
And call thee my sweet wife.

If Adam lost his happiness,
Bewailed with ceaseless sighs,
With thee, my Eve, I scarce could wish
Another Paradise.