'Tis sunshine at last, come, my Ellen, sit near me,
And twine me these roses, we sorrow no more;
Come taste of my cup, while it sparkles to cheer me,
The cup that I fill, now the tempest is o'er.
Oh! Not that my mirth, with unhallow'd intrusion,
Would thy gentle mind to rude transport beguile,
But catch from my bowl one fond passing illusion,
And crown my gay heart with thy sympathy's smile.

Come taste of my cup - for 'till Ellen shall share it,
In vain are the roses - in vain is the wine:
Past sorrow shall sweeten, and love shall prepare it,
For forms that are softer and finer like thine.
Bright beams a new world, and sweet visions break o'er us,
And as landscapes are fresher when past are the show'rs,
So richer the bliss and the gay  hopes before us - 
For where are the hearts that have sorrow'd like ours.

Oh! Ever, my love, must I think of that season,
When, friendless, we mingled our terrors and sighs;
And how had I failed, in the night of my reason,
Had comfort not beam'd from thine eloquent eyes.
Take the glass that I fill, take the homage I render:
No riot shall break the soft dreams of the soul;
Around us shall breathe an Elysium more tender,
And finer enchantment be waked from my bowl.