By Thomas Moore
Dear? yes, tho' mine no more,
Even this but makes thee dearer;
And love, since hope is o'er,
But draws thee nearer.
Change as thou wilt to me,
The same thy charm must be;
New loves may come to weave
Their witchery o'er thee,
Yet still, tho' false, believe
That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.
Think'st thou that aught but death could end
A tie not falsehood's self can rend?
No, when alone, far off I die,
No more to see, no more cares thee,
Even then, my life's last sigh
Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.