To Mary in Heaven

To Mary in Heaven.
By Robert Burns.
64.7

Thou ling’ring star, with less ring ray,
That lov’s; to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met.
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy Image at our last embrace,
Ah, little thought we ’twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore.
O’erhung with wildwood, thick’ning green;
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,
Twined am’rous round the raptured scene:
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest.
The birds sang love on every spray-
Till, too too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o’er these scenes my mem’ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but Impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?.