TO JULIA.

I saw the peasant's hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever; They seemed in very being twined; Yet now the oak is fresh as ever!

Not so the widowed ivy shines: Torn from its dear and only stay, In drooping widowhood it pines, And scatters all its bloom away.

Thus, Julia, did our hearts entwine, Till Fate disturbed their tender ties: Thus gay indifference blooms in thine, While mine, deserted, droops and dies!