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.