Sad and luckless was the season,
When to court fair Ellen flew,
Flew from Love, and Peace, and Reason,
Worlds to see of promise new.
Back she comes - each grace is finer,
Ev'ry charm that crowds adore,
All the form divine, diviner -
But the heart is there no more.

Oh! 'tis gone, the temper even,
Careless nature, artless ease!
All that makes retirement heaven - 
Pleasing, without toil to please,
Hope no more, sweet lark, to cheer her,
Vain to her these echoing skies - 
Bloom non more, ye violets, near her,
Yours are charms she would not prize.

Ellen! Go where crowds admire thee,
Chariots rattle, torches blaze;
Here our dull content would tire thee,
Worthless be our village praise.
Go! Yet oh, that Thought's soft season
Ellen's heart might but restore!
Hard the task - whate'er the reason - 
Hard the task to love no more.