I saw the peasant's hand unkind

  From yonder oak the ivy sever;

They seemed in very being twined;

  Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines:

  Torn from its dear and only stay,

In drooping widowhood it pines,

  And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine,

  Till Fate disturbed their tender ties:

Thus gay indifference blooms in thine,

  While mine, deserted, droops and dies!