Sad and luckless was the season

Sad and luckless was the season,

When to court fair Ellen flew,

Flew from Love, and Peace, and Reason,

Worlds to see of promise new.

Back she comes - each grace is finer,

Ev'ry charm that crowds adore,

All the form divine, diviner -

But the heart is there no more.

Oh! 'tis gone, the temper even,

Careless nature, artless ease!

All that makes retirement heaven -

Pleasing, without toil to please,

Hope no more, sweet lark, to cheer her,

Vain to her these echoing skies -

Bloom non more, ye violets, near her,

Yours are charms she would not prize.

Ellen! Go where crowds admire thee,

Chariots rattle, torches blaze;

Here our dull content would tire thee,

Worthless be our village praise.

Go! Yet oh, that Thought's soft season

Ellen's heart might but restore!

Hard the task - whate'er the reason -

Hard the task to love no more.