To----.

In vain, sweet Maid! for me you bring     The first-blown blossoms of the spring;     My tearful cheek you wipe in vain,     And bid its pale rose bloom again.     In vain! unconscious, did I say?     Oh! you alone these tears can stay;     Alone, the pale rose can renew,     Whose sunshine is a smile from you.     Yet not in friendship's smile it lives;     Too cold the gifts that friendship gives:     The beam that warms a winter's day,     Plays coldly in the lap of May.     You bid my sad heart cease to swell,     But will you, if its tale I tell,     Nor turn away, nor frown the while,     But smile, as you were wont to smile?     Then bring me not the blossoms young,     That erst on Flora's forehead hung;     But round thy radiant temples twine,     The flowers whose flaunting mocks at mine.     Give me--nor pinks, nor pansies gay,     Nor violets, fading fast away,     Nor myrtle, rue, nor rosemary,     But give, oh! give, thyself to me!