WHEN melancholy and alone,

I sit on some moss-covered stone

Beside a murm’ring stream;

I think I hear thy voice's sound

In every tuneful thing around,

Oh! what a pleasant dream.

The silvery streamlet gurgling on,

The mock-bird chirping on the thorn,

Remind me, love, of thee.

They seem to whisper thoughts of love,

As thou didst when the stars above

Witnessed thy vows to me; —

The gentle zephyr floating by,

In chorus to my pensive sigh,

Recalls the hour of bliss,

When from thy balmy lips I drew

Fragrance as sweet as Hermia's dew,

And left the first fond kiss.

In such an hour, when are forgot,

The world, its cares, and my own lot,

Thou seemest then to be,

A gentle guarding spirit given

To guide my wandering thoughts to heaven,

If they should stray from thee.