Ode
by 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 hover’st 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!

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