James Thomson (1700–1748)

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,

Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled?

To what delightful world above,

Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou free at pleasure roam,

And sometimes share thy lover’s woe

Where, void of thee, his cheerless home

Can now, alas! no comfort know?

Oh! if thou hoverest round my walk,

While, under every well-known tree,

I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee—

Should then the weary eye of grief

Beside some sympathetic stream

In slumber find a short relief,

Oh, visit thou my soothing dream!