To a Lady Who Presented the Author With the Velvet Band Which Bound Her Tresses

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair

Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;

It claims my warmest, dearest care,

Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;

'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:

From me again 'twill ne'er depart,

But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip

Is not so dear to me as this;

_That_ I but for a moment sip,

And banquet on a transient bliss:

_This_ will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane;

The leaves of Love will still be green

When Memory bids them bud again.