if sometimes in the haunts of men thine image from my breast may fade, the lonely hour presents again the semblance of thy gentle shade: and now that sad and silent hour thus much of thee can still restore, and sorrow unobserved may pour the plaint she dare not speak before. oh, pardon that in crowds awhile i waste one thought i owe to thee, and self-condemn’d, appear to smile, unfaithful to thy memory: nor deem that memory less dear, that then i seem not to repine; i would not fools should overhear one sigh that should be wholly thine. if not the goblet pass unquaff’d, it is not drain’d to banish care; the cup must hold a deadlier draught, that brings a lethe for despair. and could oblivion set my soul from all her troubled visions free, i’d dash to earth the sweetest bowl that drown’d a single thought of thee. for wert thou vanish’d from my mind, where could my vacant bosom turn? and who could then remain behind to honour thine abandon’d urn? no, no - it is my sorrow’s pride that last dear duty to fulfil: though all the world forget beside, ‘tis meet that i remember still. for well i know, that such had been thy gentle care for him, who now unmourn’d shall quit this mortal scene, where none regarded him, but thou: and, oh! i feel in that was given a blessing never meant for me; thou wert too like a dream of heaven for earthly love to merit thee.