Marguerite

Ah Marguerite ! with you are gone
The light and life of Kensington.

Alone in Florence, griev'd I view
Those scenes to which you bade adieu.

Oft, gazing from the river-wall
Up to the terrace, I recall
The happy evenings there we past.

Nor thought how briefly they would last.

Can Paris ever make amends
To you for Italy and friends ?

Can all the world to me atone
For losing you, and you alone,
Or for that yearly summons . . Come
While your two lilacs are in bloom ?