Classic Poem

Here 'S the bower she loved so much,
And the tree she planted;
Here 's the harp she used to touch—
Oh, how that touch enchanted!
Roses now unheeded sigh;
Where 's the hand to wreathe them?
Songs around neglected lie;
Where 's the lip to breathe them?
Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness;
Time, that once so fleetly moved,
Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,
Days were moments near her;
Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid,
Nor Pity wept a dearer!
Here's the bower, etc.