VII.
‘Oh, do not say thou must be gone,
‘And leave thy daughter here alone,
‘Like some poor solitary bird,
‘To live unseen and mourn unheard.
‘Who will be left for me to love?
‘And who will lead me through the grove?
‘And when sweet, fresh-blown flowers I find,
‘Around whose brow shall they be twined?
‘And who, when evening comes along,
‘Will sit and hear my evening song,
‘And smile, and praise the simple strain,
‘And kiss my cheek, and smile again?
‘The sun would never more be bright,
‘Joyless would pass the darksome night,
‘The merry groves and murmuring stream
‘Would all so sad and lonely seem,
‘That I could here no longer stay,
‘And thou in the spirit-land away.’