Warren Hastings

And now, my Marian, from its shackles free,
My wearied fancy turns for ease to thee;
To thee, my compass through life’s varied stream,
My constant object, and unfailing theme.
Torn from the bosom of my soul’s repose,
And self-devoted to surrounding woes,
Oft o’er my solitary thoughts I brood—
(For passing crowds to me are solitude)—
Catch thy loved image, on thy beauties dwell,
Improved by graces which no tongue can tell,
The look which I have seen, by love endeared,
The voice to love attuned, which I have heard.
Or rapt in thoughts of higher worth, adore
Thy virtues, drawn by mem’ry’s faithful store;
Or court, as now obsequious at her shrine,