Six Songs

The young rose which I gave thee so dewy and light,
Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night,
Who oft, by the moonlight, o'er her blushes hath hung,
And thrilled every leaf with the wild lay he sang.

Oh, take then this young rose, and let her life be
Prolonged by the breath she will borrow from thee;
For, while o'er her bosom thy soft notes shall thrill,
She'll think the sweet night-bird is courting her still.