John Bradford

1706 - 1785

To Clare

A little while, and I shall be
Fated to dwell afar from thee,
Our wild wood haunts no more to see.
My Clare.

To part from one I've lov'd so long,
Of bitter thoughts calls up a throng.
Whose only vent is mournful song, I
My Clare.

Unfeeling words, from hearts of stone,
Life's dearest dreams have all overthrown,
And I was left to weep alone.
My Clare.

But thou wert near! to thee I came,
Thy soothing sympathy to claim.
And hear sweet Hope's inspiring name.
My Clare.

But now 'tis mine henceforth to dwell
Where no heart is that loves me well.
The woes I fear no tongue can tell,
My Clare.

When I am sad, when all looks drear,
And Life's storms fill my heart with fear,
Thy cheering voice I shall not hear.
My Clare.

When Care's wild waves around me roll,
Thou'lt not be near to soothe my soul.
Though thou alone canst them control,
My Clare.

No more must I now mix among
The gay, the beautiful, and young,
O'er whom fair Hope's bright beams are flung,
My Clare.

For should I see dark tresses flow,
O'er outraged Feeling's fiery glow,
My soul would feel the keenest woe.
My Clare.

For then my thoughts would fly to thee ;
By Fancy's aid I then should see
Thy form —for ever lost to me !—
My Clare.
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