Page:Adelaide.pdf/153

Rh Of sorrow, that the nightingale pours forth, Like the soft dirge of love. There is oft told A melancholy record of this grove— It was time once the haunt of young affection; And now seems hallow'd by the tender vows That erst were breathed here. Sad is the tale That tells of blighted feelings—hopes destroyed; But love is like the rose, so many ills Assail it in the bud—the canker worm, The frost of winter, and the summer storm, All blow it down; rarely the blossom comes To full maturity. But there is nought Sinks with so chill a breath as faithlessness— As she could tell, whose loveliness yet lives In village legends. Often at this hour Of lonely beauty, would she list the tale Of tenderness, and hearken to the vows Of one, more dear than life unto her soul.