Still True To Nell.

A poem by John Hartley

Th' sun wor settin, - red an gold,
Wi splendor paintin th' west,
An purplin tints throo th' valley roll'd,
As daan he sank to rest.
Yet dayleet lingered looath to leeav
A world soa sweet an fair,
Wol silent burds a pathway cleave,
Throo th' still an slumb'rin air.

Aw stroll'd along a country rooad,
Hedged in wi thorn an vine;
Which wild flower scents an shadows broad,
Converted to a shrine.
As twileet's deeper curtains fell
Aw sat mi daan an sighed;
Mi thowts went back to th' time when Nell,
Had rambled bi mi side.

Aw seemed to hear her voice agean,
Soft whisperin i' mi ear,
Recallin things 'at once had been,
When th' futur all wor clear.
When love, - pure, honest, youthful love
Had left us nowt to crave;
An fancies full ov bliss we wove; -
Alas! Nell's in her grave.

Oh, Nell! I' that fair hooam ov thine,
Whear all is breet an pure, - -
Say, - is ther room for love like mine?
Can earthborn love endure?
Do angels' hearts past vows renew,
To mortals here who dwell?
It must be soa; - if my heart's true,
Aw cannot daat thee, Nell.

It's weel we cannot see beyond
That curtain Deeath lets fall;
Lest cheerin hooaps, an longins fond,
Should be denied us all.
Better to live i' hooap nor fear, -
'Tis Mercy plan'd it soa;
For if my Nelly isn't thear,
Aw shouldn't care to goa.

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