The poem
Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watcht him laying down His brow, and dropt our own Against each other's, and how faint and short And sliding the support! What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest, Ianthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with pain. O bid me hope again! O give me back what Earth, what (without you) Not Heaven itself can do-- One of the golden days that we have past, And let it be my last! Or else the gift would be, however sweet, Fragile and incomplete.