At dewy Dawn,
As o'er the Lawn,
Young Roger early stray'd,
He chanced to meet
With Jenny sweet,
The blooming Country Maid.
Her Cheeks so red
With Blushes spread
Shew'd like the breaking Day.
Her modest Look
The Shepherd took;
She stole his Heart away.

With tender Air,
He woo'd the Fair,
And movingly addrest;
For Love divine,
Can Clowns refine,
And warm the coldest Breast;
Her Eyes he prais'd,
And fondly gaz'd

O, bliss! where hearts are all aflame
With love far deeper than a name,
Where speech from hearts so sweetly slips,
In loving words and touch of lips,
Where rise and find a transient rest,
The noblest passion of the breast,
I fain would dwell if not for aye,
At least on each Thanksgiving day.
O, love! wherever love is found
In all this toilsome world around
In ache and woe and endless strife
Thou art the balm in human life,
That maketh possible to bear
Our mingled load of joy and care.
No lot can wholly cheerless be,

You ask for summer instead of cold weather,
But that can never be,
The passion that once so bound us together,
Forever is dead in me.

O yes! I loved and sought to discover
To you my heart's distress,
But the love you cheaply gave to another,
Turned mine to bitterness.

It is now too late; and past forever
The time to gather in
The ties of love and bind together,
The life that might have been.

A song for old man Thurman,
And sing it clear and strong.
His life has been a sermon,
Now let it be a song.
And this shall be its burthen,
To give us greatest joy —
He calls his old wife " Sweetheart, "
And loves her like a boy.

There is no fairer story
In all our nation's life;
No better, purer glory
In all its peace and strife.
True is that man, and steadfast,
Fine gold, with no alloy,
Who calls his old wife " Sweetheart, "
And loves her like a boy!

Who cares for his position

The golden-rod was flaming bright,
The autumn day was fine,
The air was soft and scented with
The purple muscadine.

We travelled far a wooded path,
The sky was bright above
And all things seemed to smile and breathe
A blessing on our love.

O! sweet and dreamy was that face,
Such tenderness expressed
In every line, and born to be,
Love burdened and caressed.

So happy in my happiness
I could not think it then,
That after parting on that day
We should not meet again.

For hope is ever found with love,

Farewell, Dearest and Best,
What matters it whether the name be Dove,
Dear-heart, and all sweet words at love's behest,
Since none can voice my love?

To stay is past my power;
Oh, love, my own Dear-heart, farewell, good-bye!
For thee I'll breathe through every passing hour,
A fond and secret sigh.

But, Dear, though it be long,
This hope 'mid distant scenes and fellow-men
Will lead me on, in solitude, or throng,
That we shall meet again.

Sweetheart, do you remember how
One evening, years ago,
I held you where I found you, with both my arms around you,
Close to my heart as now,
And kissed you, dearest, so, and so?

The golden summer sun had set,
But through the sifting gray
There blushed a purple glimmer that dimmer grew and dimmer,
While low to westward fluttered yet

The rainbow on the ocean
A moment bright,
The nightingale's devotion
That dies on night,
Eve's rosy star a-tremble
Its hour of light —
All things that love resemble
Too soon take flight.

The violets we cherish
Died in the spring;
Roses and lilies perish
In what they bring;
And joy and beauty wholly
With life depart;
But love leaves slow, how slowly!
Life's empty heart.

O, strange to me, and wondrous,
The storm passed by,
With sound of voices thundrous
Swept from the sky;

What time I went from thee to other lands
Love took my soul between his glowing hands,
And turned it all about and tortured it —
Ah, cruel Love! — and minded not a whit
Because my poor soul at his fervent breath
Was melted, ev'n as iron that softeneth
Upon the forge; lo, on my cheek appears
Love's handiwork — my molten soul in tears.

Pretty one, sad one, lift up your eyes and greet me;
The April wind is in the land and appleblossoms drift.
Come from out your shadowed place—take a step to meet me.
I am new Love, true Love—who comes with many a gift.

With fresh, red roses bespangled with the dew
For the withered ones your sweet hands cherish,
With a handful of happy dreams to all come true
In place of the wistful ones that perish.

Pretty one, sad one, lift up your eyes nor doubt me;
I am new Love, true Love who at your threshold stands,