The Keepsake

The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil,The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,Shew summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tallSheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose(In vain the darling of successful love)Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.Nor can I find, amid my lonely walkBy rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,That blue and bright-eyed flowret of the brook,Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!So will not fade the flowers which EmmelineWith delicate fingers on the snow-white silkHas work'd, (the flowers which most she knew I lov'd,)And, more belov'd than they, her auburn hair.

In the cool morning twilight, early wakedBy her full bosom's joyless restlessness,Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister,Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,Making a quiet image of disquietIn the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.There, in that bower where first she own'd her love,And let me kiss my own warm tear of joyFrom off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretch'dThe silk upon the frame, and work'd her nameBetween the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not—Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!That forc'd to wander till sweet spring return,I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,Her voice, (that even in her mirthful moodHas made me wish to steal away and weep,)Nor yet th' entrancement of that maiden kissWith which she promis'd, that when spring return'd,She would resign one half of that dear name,And own thenceforth no other name but mine!