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Then, as in Hope's young days, Track thou the antique maze Of the rich garden to its grassy mound; There is a lone white rose, Shedding, in sudden snows, Its faint leaves o'er the emerald turf around.

Well know'st thou that fair tree— A murmur of the bee Dwells ever in the honey'd lime above; Bring me one pearly flower Of all its clustering shower— For on that spot we first reveal'd our love.

Gather one woodbine bough, Then, from the lattice low Of the bower'd cottage which I bade thee mark, When by the hamlet last, Thro' dim wood-lanes we pass'd, While dews were glancing to the glow-worm's spark.