THE FAITH OF LOVE.
317
Then turn thee from each pleasant spot
Where thou wert wont to rove,
For there the friend of thy soul is not,
Nor the joy of thy youth, oh 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
That tells of vanished hours.
And wear not on thine aching heart
The image of the dead,
For the tie is rent that gave thee part
In the gladness it's beauty shed.
