THIS TO THEE, LUCY.
Reading edition
When like the ripples of some troubled lake, Each year shall hasten to its lingering end, That chord in Memory's sweet-toned harp awake, Which thrills responsive to the name of Friend! And oh! whate'er shall be thy future lot, In sunshine or in shade, forget me not! Whether thou dwellest in the busy mart Ceaseless caressed by pride, and pomp and power, Or circlest the ambition of thy heart Within the lowly cot and rustic bower, 'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,' Still, still my prayer shall be, 'Forget me not!'