The purple heather on the brae
Was all abloom; by glen and weld
The wild birds sang the live-long day,
The corn-fields ripened into gold.
The garden blooms were wonderous fair;
Red roses blushed in regal glow;
Carnations scented all the air,
Pure was the lilies' virgin snow.
But fairer than the garden flowers,
Or all the summer blooms, wean
Was she, whose smiles beguiled the hours--
Was she, whose presence charmed the scene.
Oh! pleasant were the sylvian glades,
Oh! sweet the hush of summer noon;
Roaming 'neath tangled green-wood shades
We deemed _that_ twilight came too soon!
Our home-ward way lay through the wood,
We lingered by the streamlet's side,--
False vows were made what time we stood
There, 'neath the elms, that eventide.
I carved her name upon a tree,--
A gnarled old ash-tree, gaunt and grey;
"The name may stay," she said to me,
"When I, perchance, am far away!"
Swiftly the summers come and go,
And life grows stern, and love grows cold;
Dim are the days of long ago--
Their joys a story long since told.
But, sometimes, at the close of day,
I dream of that dim wood, and see,
A name upon an ash-tree grey--
'Tis all the past has left to me!