Flower of the forest was my love,
Soft as the sighing summer's gale,
Gentle and constant as the dove,
Blooming as roses in the vale.
Alas! by Tweed my love did stray,
For me he search'd the banks around;
But, ah! the sad and fatal day,
My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.
Now droops the willow o'er the stream;
Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove;
Dire fancy paints him in my dream;
Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.
THE SEASON COMES WHEN FIRST WE MET.
The season comes when first we met,
But you return no more;
Why cannot I the days forget,
Which time can ne'er restore?
O! days too sweet, too bright to last,
Are you, indeed, for ever past?
The fleeting shadows of delight,
In memory I trace;
In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace;
But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
And tears the fading visions close!
OH, TUNEFUL VOICE! I STILL DEPLORE.
Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore
Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate in my heart;
In echo's cave I long to dwell,
And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doom'd to part.