The Tear

    Our sympathies move；

    When Truth， in a glance， should appear，

    The lips may beguile¹，

    With a dimple or smile，

    But the test of affection's a Tear：

    Too oft is a smile

    But the hypocrite's wile²，

    To mask detestation， or fear；

    Give me the soft sigh，

    Whilst the soultelling eye

    Is dimm'd， for a time， with a Tear：

    Mild Charity's glow，

    To us mortals below，

    Shows the soul from barbarity clear；

    Compassion³ will melt，

    Where this virtue⁴ is felt，

    And its dew is diffused⁵ in a Tear：

    The man， doom'd to sail

    With the blast of the gale⁶，

    Through billows Atlantic to steer⁷，

    As he bends o'er the wave

    Which may soon be his grave，

    The green sparkles bright with a Tear；

    The Soldier braves death

    For a fanciful wreath

    In Glory's romantic career；

    But he raises the foe⁸

    When in battle laid low，

    And bathes every wound with a Tear.

    If， with high-bounding pride，

    He return to his bride！

    Renouncing⁹ the gore-crimson'd spear；

    All his toils¹⁰ are repaid

    When， embracing the maid，

    From her eyelid¹¹ he kisses the Tear.

    Sweet scene of my youth！

    Seat of Friendship and Truth，

    Where Love chas'd each fast-fleeting year

    Loth to leave thee， I mourn'd，

    For a last look I turn'd，

    But thy spire¹² was scarce seen through a Tear：

    Though my vows¹³ I can pour，

    To my Mary no more，

    My Mary， to Love once so dear，

    In the shade of her bow'r，

    I remember the hour，

    She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

    By another possest，

    May she live ever blest！

    Her name still my heart must revere¹⁴：

    With a sigh I resign，

    What I once thought was mine，

    And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

    Ye friends of my heart，

    Ere from you I depart，

    This hope to my breast is most near：

    If again we shall meet，

    In this rural retreat，

    May we meet， as we part， with a Tear.

    When my soul wings her flight

    To the regions of night，

    And my corse shall recline on its bier；

    As ye pass by the tomb，

    Where my ashes consume，

    Oh！ moisten their dust with a Tear.