The purple heather on the brae
Was all abloom; by glen and weld
The wild birds sang the live-long day,
The corn-fields ripened into gold.

The garden blooms were wonderous fair;
Red roses blushed in regal glow;
Carnations scented all the air,
Pure was the lilies' virgin snow.

But fairer than the garden flowers,
Or all the summer blooms, wean
Was she, whose smiles beguiled the hours—
Was she, whose presence charmed the scene.

Oh! pleasant were the sylvian glades,
Oh! sweet the hush of summer noon;
Roaming 'neath tangled green-wood shades
We deemed that twilight came too soon!

Our home-ward way lay through the wood,
We lingered by the streamlet's side,—
False vows were made what time we stood
There, 'neath the elms, that eventide.

I carved her name upon a tree,—
A gnarled old ash-tree, gaunt and grey;
"The name may stay," she said to me,
"When I, perchance, am far away!"

Swiftly the summers come and go,
And life grows stern, and love grows cold;
Dim are the days of long ago—
Their joys a story long since told.

But, sometimes, at the close of day,
I dream of that dim wood, and see,
A name upon an ash-tree grey—
'Tis all the past has left to me!