’Til tired of home Columbo grew,
And pensive sigh’d for something new;
For distant realms prepar’d to part,—
When spoke the partner of his heart:
“Why should my dear Columbo rove,
And leave me widow’d in the grove—
What ill can worse than absence prove?
Yet let the toils, the perils, cares,
Which fate for travellers prepares,
Retard thy speed—attend the spring,