Lennox Amott

Ah, hast thou gone from him whose breast Bleeds with the thought we are apart, Whose tears fall vainly and unblest,

Alone in my chamber, forsaken, unsought, My spirit's enveloped in shadows of night, Is there no one to give me a smile or a thought?

Bright scenes must all depart as they've departed, Unshadowed years will fly as they have flown, And fairer visions leave us silent-hearted,

I. An English village, a summer scene, A homely cottage, a garden green,

O slumber on, untaught to feel The weight of care and sorrow's blight. Here have I often loved to steal

I. It was the time of year when cockneys fly From town to country, and from there to town.

I. Good day, and how d'ye do my friends and neighbours? I must have dozed upon my easy chair;

I. I take my goosequill for some recreation, I'll have a pleasurable time to-night,

My beauty lives in a cottage grey by a gentle river's mouth, A cottage grey by the lone sea-shore away in the sunny south, Her eye's as fair, oh fairer, than the moonlight o'er the sea,

I saw on a hedge that was flourishing by A rose that was stirred by the breath of the morn, So smiling and fragrant it looked there, that I

There are moments we can look to, we can cherish in the past, As the fleeting days that numbered them are dwindling to their last, Like the roses in the autumn that are severed from their stem,

We were friends, and the warmest of friends, he and I, Each glance was a language that broke from the heart, No cloudlet swept over the realm of the sky,

Thou'rt gone like the meteor that blazed in the sky, And the spot thou hast smiled upon knows thee no more, Is there no one that heaves o'er thy ashes a sigh?

There's a face that beclouds like a shadow my pathway at morn and eve, There's a form that glides before me which my eyes can never leave, When I pore above the hearth and heavy thoughts my bosom fill,

The eve is still and silent and above the tinted plain The passing clouds are driving gentle showers of summer rain, And the scent of hay-strewn meadows and the fresh-besprinkled ground

When the twilight shadows deepen and the far-off lands are dim, And the vesper dirge is stealing like the chant of cherubim, There's a prayer within my bosom that's responsive to the sound,