O farewell, my Frances, sweet Frances, adieu!
My heart's dearest hopes are all cent'red in you;
On Penmaen's proud cliff will you watch for the gales
That speed from the shores of high Arvon our sails?

On our dear native land when I breathe my last sighs,
Once more to that cliff I will lift my sad eyes;
And though my fond sorrows are lost in the air,
I'll teach my sick fancy to meet with thee there!

When tost on the ocean's rude billows I mourn,
How often my heart to that glen will return,
Where Frances, in beauty and innocence drest,
First wak'd the soft anguish that swells in my breast.

For thee shall my orisons rise in the dawn,
On the clouds of the twilight thy form shall be drawn;
And when the last sun-beam is quench'd in the sea,
Still fancy shall dwell on an image of thee.