Sent to Him the Night Before He Took His Bride to Their House in London

This evening’s shade no mirth, no joy beguiles, Beneath that roof, fair Catherine’s home so long; Grief, ill conceal’d, in forced and transient smiles, Sits on each heart, and falters on each tongue.

Yes, Harper, e’en on thine;—since, if thy brow From Nature’s hand its candid traits obtain’d, Thou hast an heart to feel for all who know, And love and lose the treasure thou hast gain’d.

Long on your mutual fate, that every star Propitious to the weal of life may shine, Still shall my soul implore, when distant far From her, whose hand, and vows, and heart are thine, Oft as her form shall to my memory rise, And wake, with kindest wishes, selfish sighs.