In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp,
A friend whom death alone could sever,
But envy with malignant grasp,
Has torn thee from my breast for ever.
2.
True, she has forc'd thee from my _breast_,
But in my _heart_ thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there, thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
3.
And when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On _thy dear_ breast I'll lay my head,
Without _thee_! _where_ would be _my Heaven?_
_February_, 1803.
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