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?

O! 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!