Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth,
Like the soft dirge of love.
There is oft told
A melancholy record of this grove—
It was time once the haunt of young affection;
And now seems hallow'd by the tender vows
That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale
That tells of blighted feelings—hopes destroyed;
But love is like the rose, so many ills
Assail it in the bud—the canker worm,
The frost of winter, and the summer storm,
All blow it down; rarely the blossom comes
To full maturity. But there is nought
Sinks with so chill a breath as faithlessness—
As she could tell, whose loveliness yet lives
In village legends. Often at this hour
Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale
Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows
Of one, more dear than life unto her soul.
