To Mary

WHERE Beauty is smiling
With Love undenied,
Where Gladness is flowing
From Pleasure's hill-side,
Whatever of charming
I elsewhere may see,
I can turn from it, Mary,
To think upon thee.
When winds of affliction
Blow cold on my rest,
And the pang that will sleep not
Is loud in my breast,
Still however clinging
These troubles may be,
I can turn from them, Mary,
To think upon thee.
When Weariness sleepeth
And Care is at rest,
When Happiness dreameth
Of all it loves best,
Then as the moon gazes
Upon the broad sea,
My soul o'er thy dwelling
Looks down upon thee!