1

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. 


2

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. 


3

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: 


4

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.