Thy ship must sail, my Henry dear,
Fast comes the day, too soon, too sure;
And I, for one long tedious year,
Must learn thy absence to endure.
Come let me by my pencil's aid
Arrest thy image ere it flies;
And like the fond Corinthian maid,
Thus win from Art what Fate denies.

And I will hang with fondness warm
O'er all that there I pictur'd see;
To others but a mimic form, - 
But oh! My life, my love to me.
Or let me sing the song so dear,
The song that told thy bosom's fire,
When first, our favorite willows near,
I bade thee wake thy ready lyre.

Yes, o'er and o'er, I'll sing and play
The song beneath those willow trees,
When thou, alas! Art far away,
And nought but thoughts of thee can please.
Dear sister Arts! Of power divine,
To soothe the heart when cheerless found,
And near, with moonlight gleam to shine,
When all the world is darkness round.