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THE WILLOW-GROVE;A BALLAD.
"The dew hangs on my yellow hair, While wearily I pace the grove;—Cold, cold, and chilly is the air; Ah! me, what can detain my love!
Oh! linger in the dark-blue sky, Thou lovely orb, to lovers true;For loud the torrent rushes by, And slipp'ry is the path with dew.
Yet oft we steal us to this grove, Remote from folly's noisy throng,Sacred to virtue and to love! And breathe our vows these wilds among.
Oh! what can make my lover stay? He is not wont to linger long:Sweet angels! guide him on his way— His dang'rous way, yon cliffs along!
As this fair Isabella said, The wind sigh'd hollow through the wood;And mournfully its deep green shade Waved o'er the darkly rushing flood.
