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Yet shall their odour soft
One bright dream round me waft,
Of life, youth, summer,—all that I must leave!
And oh! if thou would'st ask
Wherefore thy steps I task
The grove, the stream, the hamlet-vale to trace;
'Tis that some thought of me
—When I am gone,—may be
The spirit bound to each familiar place.
I bid mine image dwell,
(Oh! break thou not the spell!)
In the deep wood, and by the fountain side!
Thou must not, my beloved!
Rove where we two have roved,
Forgetting her that in her spring-time died!
F. H.
