This will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane; The leaves of Love will still be green

When Memory bids them bud again.

Oh! little lock of golden hue,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.

Not though a thousand more adorn

The polish'd brow where once you shone, Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,

Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806. [First published, 1832.]

I

H! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,

For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving : They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

For once, my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;

But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another;

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him ;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;

Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measure.

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,— For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness.

Yet, even in these a thought will steal
In spite of every vain endeavour,---
And fiends might pity what I feel,—-

To know that thou art lost for ever.

H, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:

I thought from my wrath no atonement

could save you :

But woman is made to command and deceive us
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long;
When we met, I determined again to suspect you—
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.