O—you may call it madness, folly, — 
You shall not chase my gloom away ; 
: There’s such a chars? in melancholy, 
I would not, if I could, be gay ! 
Oh ! if you knew the pensive pleasure 
That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
You would not rob me of a treasure 
Monarchs are too poor to buy. 
WEET is the fragrance of remembered love ; 
The memory of clasped hands is very sweet, 
Joined hands that did not once too often meet, 
And never knew that saddest word “ Enough !” 
Farewell, and all white omens go with thee! 
John Payne. 
