Improbability, or, The batchelor's dislike to a married life/Twelve Months are Past

TWELVE MONTHS are PAST.

TWelve months are paſt, ſince on this ſtrand,
in ſad diſtreſs we parted,
And as the boat forſook the land,
the oar my hand deſerted.

My eyes on yours were fondly bent,
and ſeem'd their tears to borrow,
And ſure from you a look was ſent,
that well repaid the ſorrow.

To bear me quickly from the ſhore,
the crew, our grief ſurveying,
With lengthen'd ſtroke ſtill kept the oar,
in well tim'd meaſure playing.

Till diſtant and approaching night,
your lovely image ſhaded,
Yet ever in ideal ſight,
your beauty oft unfaded.

Oft when the midnight watch I've kept,
when ſeas were round us ſwelling,
I've fear'd alone the gale that ſwept,
too rudely o'er your dwelling.

But now my love, no more your breaſt,
ſhall beat with ſad emotion,
I'll ſtrive to make each moment bleſt,
nor tempt again the ocean.