Here's the bower she lov'd so much,
And the tree she planted,
Here's the harp she used to touch,
Oh! how that touch enchanged!
Roses now unheeded sigh,
Where's the hand to wreath them,
Songs around neglected lie,
Where's the lip to breathe them.
Spring may bloom but she we lov'd
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness,
Time that once so fleetly mov'd
Now hath lost its fleetness.