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There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the night long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.

That bower and its music I never forget; But oft, when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think, is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?

No! the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone; And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone.

Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer.

For many months my hero ne'er neglected To take his ramble there, and soon found out, In much less time than one could have expected, What 'twas they all were quarrelling about.