_One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs_.
Has Time a changeling made of thee?
Oh! no; and thou art all to me:
He bares the forest, but his pow’rs
Impair not love like ours.
Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight,
When once we meet we shall unite,
As dew-drops down the lily run,
And, touching, blend in one.
For thee this bosom learnt to grieve,
Another never made it heave;
When present, oh! it was thy throne,
And, absent, thine alone.
Then may my trembling pilgrim feet
In safety find thy lov’d retreat!
And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care,
Still let me perish there!