Classic Poem

Here is the bank I loved so well,
But all its flowers are shrunk away!
And here the lately verdant dell,
Where I and Henry used to stray!

Ah me! I sigh, and look around,
No marks of what it was remain,
Save yon rude rock, that wept and frown'd,
When gay the bower, and green the plain!

While happy, under summer skies,
We gazed upon its dropping brow,
I little thought how soon these eyes
With as perpetual tears should flow.

If once this heart to love were cold,
And man's base falsehood could divine,
O! I would sell my youth for gold,
My marriage vow at Plutus' shrine.

Then alter'd looks I should not mourn,
The faithless glance I should not see;
The false one leave me, or return,
'Twould then be all the same to me.

'Tis not the blast, that piercing blows,
'Tis not the rains, that beating pour;
I mourn not what their rage may do,
To thin my flock, and blight my bower.

Nor nightly were my bosom bare
To all their wild inclemency,
I would not shed this bitter tear,
But Henry's love grows cold to me!

Pass a few months, and we behold
Time lead again the blooming Spring,
But ne'er shall Time, to hearts grown cold,
Again the vanish'd kindness bring.