When in reply thy own harp speaks,
To the soft touch thy fingers give.
The thrilling note that touch awakes,
Will ever in my memory live—
Remembrance lives, the sweet note dies,
And love's brief rapture would you prove.
Like that 'tis sweet, and quickly flies—
Yes trust me dearest, such is love !

Ah, trust me, such is love !
You pressed the rose with tenderness.
And tried its gathered dew to sip,
It died—beneath the sweetest kiss
That ever fell from maiden's lip.
Its fading blush, its withering bloom.
In vain to save you fondly strove.
That soft kiss sealed its early doom,
And trust mu dearest such is love ;
Ah, trust me such is love !

Yet moments marked by no delight.
Or those by cankering sorrow crossed,
Return not back, though swift their flight,
And these, my love are really lost,
Then strike the harp—then pluck the rose.
Delay not love's brief joy to prove,
Seize the bright bHss so soon to close,
For trust me dearest such is love ;
All, trust me such is love.