Anne Hunter

Behold the gloomy tyrant’s awful form Binding the captive earth in icy chains; His chilling breath sweeps o’er the watery plains, Howls in the blast, and swells the rising storm. See from its centre bends the rifted tower, Threat’ning the lowly vale with frowning pride, O’er the scared flocks that seek its sheltering side, A fearful ruin o’er their heads to pour. While to the cheerful hearth and social board Content and ease repair, the sons of want Receive from niggard fate their pittance scant; And where some shed bleak covert may afford, Wan poverty, amidst her meagre host Casts round her haggard eyes, and shivers at the frost.

Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream Which animates this mortal clay, For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day; And thus beguile the present pain With hopes that we shall meet again. Yet, will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o’er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affections finely wrought? Ah no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne’er can meet again! May he who claims thy tender heart Deserve its love, as I have done! For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved, thou art fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again!