87 
But’t is past — I forgive thee ! the anguish is o’er, 
Though the heart which so loved thee can love thee 
no more; 
I can bid thee farewell, with a look and a tone, 
As courteously calm, and cold as thine own. 
Farewell! be thou blest on thy pathway through life, 
Free from Care’s chilling blasts, and the billows of 
strife, 
Which Passion oft raises the young heart within, 
To wreck its repose on the rough reefs of sin; 
May no memories waken, when far thou shall be, 
From the wide Western valley, to whisper of me, 
To sigh o’er the past, and to make thee regret, 
Thou hast not the power to wound — and forget 
♦ 
