The bower you taught for me to bloom,
As bright will shed its tints and perfume,
As if the hand, that decked it, were there,
Its hues and its balmy breath to share.

The warbler, whose sweet, entrancing strain
Sunk deep in the heart, till joy grew pain,
Will utter his notes as soft and clear,
As when we both were lingering near.

But the brightest array of nature's dress,
Though floating in light and loveliness,
Has never worn half so bright a hue,
As when we both her witchery knew.

And the music at evening's pensive hour,
That hallows our dew-besprinkled bower,
Has never beguiled a tear from me,
Which memory did not gild for Thee.