Where thou wert wont to rove;
For there the friend of thy soul is not,
Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love!
Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there;
Her dreams in the grove she weaves,
With echoes filling the summer air,
With sighs the trembling leaves.
Then turn thee to the world again,
From those dim, haunted bowers,
And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain