HERE'S THE BOWER.

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.