Here's the bower she loved so much,

  And the tree she planted;

Here's the harp she used to touch—

  Oh, how that touch enchanted!

Roses now unheeded sigh;

  Where's the hand to wreathe them?

Songs around neglected lie;

  Where's the lip to breathe them?

        Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved

  Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;

Time, that once so fleetly moved,

  Now hath lost its fleetness.

Years were days, when here she strayed,

  Days were moments near her;

Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,

  Nor Pity wept a dearer!

        Here's the bower, etc.