Seen fading among the decoration of a Ball-room.
Thou fairest of earth's daughters,
Born in the twilight glade,
Where the gently murmuring waters
Make music through the shade ;
Wliere the brown bee gently humming,
Did often stoop to sip,
(Like a lover fondly coming)
Of the honey on thy lip.

The night breeze warn'd him gently
To seek his home's repose ;
The night bird's song then, faintly,
Around thy bow'r arose.
Here thou'rt dying—dying,
In the hour of joy and mirth—
To me thou still seem'st sighing
For the valley of thy birth.

I will take thee to yon maiden.
Thou shalt die upon her breast,
Who, till to night, was hidden
In a green vale of the west.
She should gaze upon thee dying—
She should weep o'er thee when dead-
From her rural home she's flying,
And her sweetest hours arc fled.