My Clare

Oh ! do not doubt, my gentle Clare,
The love of this fond heart ;
For could I gaze on forms more fair,
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
My Clare—
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.

A love more deep— more fondly true—
Ne'er form'd a poet's theme ;
'Tis peerless as thine eye's hright blue,
And pure as mountain stream,
My Clare—
And pure as mountain stream.

While rivers seek the boundless main,
And foam-bells on them play.
Its purity shall know no stain.
Its fervour no decay,
My Clare—
Its fervour no decay.

While flo'rets wild perfume the gale,
And glad the roving bee,
To be all thine I cannot fail.
So dear art thou to me,
My Clare—
So dear art thou to me.

Wert thou to roam firom pole to pole—
To search each monnt and glen—
Thou would'st not find a truer soul;
Among the sons of men,
My Clare—
Among the sons of men.

Doubt, then, no more, my gentle Clare,
The love of this fond heart.
For could I gaze on forms more fair.
From thee 'twould ne'er depart.
My Clare—
From thee ' twould ne'er depart.

by John Bradford

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