Mary, the day of love's pleasures has been,
And the day is o'erclouded and gone;
These eyes all their fulness of pleasure have seen,
What they never again shall look on.
The sun has oft risen and shrunk from the heaven,
And flowers with the night have been wet;
And many a smile on another's been given,
Since the first smile of Mary I met.
And eyes have been won with thy charms when thou smil'd,
As ripe blossoms tempting the bee;
And kisses the sweets of thy lips have defiled,
Since last they breath'd heaven on me.
Their honey's first tasting was lovely and pleasant,
But others have rifled the cell:
Love sickens to think of the past and the present,
Bidding all that was Mary--farewel!
The blushes of rose-blossoms shortly endure,
Though sweet is their unbudding gem;
But love in long absence may often keep pure,
If jealousy blight not the stem.
We look o'er the doubts of our minds, and we sicken,
And hope what we think is a dream;
We turn to the past and love's jealousies quicken---
We cannot first pleasures redeem.
The sun will rise bright, though in night it be set;
And the dew-drop from blossoms will sever;
But the doubtfulness, Mary, that rose since we met,
Is pain to this bosom for ever.
The beauty of things raises constant desire;
The gem rarely 'scapeth the view;
In the fears of a second first love doth expire,
And biddeth false Mary adieu!