Song.

SONG.

IN airy dreams fond fancy flies, My absent love to see, And with the early dawn I rise, Dear youth, to think of thee.

How swiftly flew the rosy hours, When hope and love were new; Sweet was the time, as op'ning flowers, But, ah! 'twas transient too.

The moments now move slowly on, Until thy wish'd return; I count them, pensive and alone, As in the shades I mourn.

Return, return, my love, and charm Each anxious care to rest; Thy voice shall every doubt disarm, And sooth my troubled breast.