After an Old Song

Where are now the violets gone,
That, in vernal hours,
All along the pathway shone
Of the queen of flowers?
“Ah, fond youth! the spring is fled,
And the violets are dead!”

Where are now the roses, say,
That, in summer hours,
Lads and lasses, we, so gay,
Plucked in singing bowers?
“Ah, fond maid! the summer 's fled,
And the roses, too, are dead!”

Lead me, then, beside the bank
Where the rivulet glistened,
Where the violet freshness drank,
And the lovers listened.
“Sun and wind burned hot and sore,
And the rivulet runs no more!”

Bring me to the arbor, then,
Where the roses, blowing,
Blushed like shepherdess and swain,
There with true love glowing.
“Wind and hail the foliage tore,
And the arbor is no more!”

Where, O, where 's the maiden now,
Who, with sweet pretending,
Turned from me her modest brow,
O'er the violets bending?
“Youth! all mortal beauty flies;—
In the grave the maiden lies!”

Where is he whose tuneful tongue,
In the summer hour,
Violet, rose, and herdsmaid sung,
Rivulet and bower?
“Maiden! ah! life soon is sped,
And the minstrel, too, is dead!”
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Author of original: 
Johann Georg Jacobi
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