Ah, hills beloved! where once, a happy child,
Your beechen shades, 'your turf, your flowers among',
I wove bluebells into garlands wild,
And woke your echoes with my artless song.
Ah, hills beloved! your turf, your flowers, remain;
But can they peace to this sad breast restore,
For one poor moment soothe the sense of pain,
And teach a breaking heart to throb no more?
And you, Aruna! in the vale below,
As to the sea your limpid waves you bear,
Can you one kind Lethean cup bestow,
To drink a long oblivion to my care?
Ah! no! when all, e'en Hope's last ray is gone,
There's no oblivion - but in death alone.