Now the valley I perceive,
Where together we will go,
And the streamlet watch each eve,
Gliding peacefully below.
Oh, the poplars on yon spot!
Oh, the beech-trees in yon grove!
And behind we'll build a cot.
Where to taste the joys of love!
FIRST LOSS.
Ah! who'll ever those days restore,
Those bright days of early love!
Who'll one hour again concede,
Of that time so fondly cherished!
Silently my wounds I feed,
And with wailing evermore
Sorrow o'er each joy now perished.
Ah! who'll e'er the days restore
Of that time so fondly cherished!
APPARENT DEATH.
Weep, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;
He died of nothing—by mere chance was slain.
But is he really dead?—oh, that I cannot prove:
A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again.
AFTER-SENSATIONS.
When the vine again is blowing,
Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,
