O urge me not to wander,
And quit my pleasant native shore;
O let me still meander
On those sweet banks I lov'd before!
The heart when fill'd with sorrow
Can find no joy in change of scene,
Nor can that cheat to--morrow
Be aught but what to--day has been.

If pleasure e'er o'ertakes me,
'Tis when I tread the wonted round
Where former joy awakes me,
And strows its relics o'er the ground.
There's not a shrub or flower
But tells some dear lov'd tale to me,
And paints some happy hour
Which I, alas! no more shall see.