Down in yon summer vale,

  Where the rill flows.

Thus said a Nightingale

  To his loved Rose:—

"Tho' rich the pleasures

"Of song's sweet measures,

"Vain were its melody,

"Rose, without thee."

Then from the green recess

  Of her night-bower,

Beaming with bashfulness,

  Spoke the bright flower:—

"Tho' morn should lend her

"Its sunniest splendor,

"What would the Rose be,

"Unsung by thee?"

Thus still let Song attend

  Woman's bright way;

Thus still let woman lend

  Light to the lay.

Like stars thro' heaven's sea

Floating in harmony

Beauty should glide along

Circled by Song.