Not Persia's Monarch could, unmov'd, survey
Those num'rous Hosts, which Time must sweep away:
He wept Misfortunes of a distant Date;
I mourn the Rigour of my instant Fate:
The dreaded Hour approaching fast I see,
When you, alas! will all be dead to me.
Then cease to wonder, if my Bosom rise,
And Tears, unbidden, rush into my Eyes;
'Tis thus, and only thus, a grateful Breast
Pours out those Thanks, which cannot be express'd:
For, O Hibernia! when I quit thy Coast,
Such Friends I leave, as few could ever boast.
An Apology To The Earl Of Orrery
Mary Barber
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Poem topics: away, fate, thanks, time, rise, fast, express, mourn, grateful, monarch, I love you, I miss you, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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