Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.3 #9 (Jul 1867).
Sweet it was in that summer time
By the winding river's bank to stray;
Sweet, where the trees in their leafy prime
Chequered with shade our wandering way:
Golden the light of the sun's last rays;
Perfumed the breath of the summer air;
Sweet, on a downcast face to gaze—
Sweet it was, and my love was fair!
Our boat lay moored on the river nigh:
The sun had sunk, and the day was gone;
The moon's faint crescent had climbed the sky;
The stars came out,—yet we wandered on.
The lightest zephyr was hushed to sleep;
There was peace and calm above, below;
Our whispers scarce broke that silence deep,
As we walked by the river's noiseless flow.
I plucked for my love a stray wild-flower;
The nightingale sang its strain divine:
I gave her my heart that evening hour;
I asked my darling—and she was mine!
Once more we had reached our little boat;
Once more, borne on by the tranquil tide,
We heard the nightingale's love-lorn note;
And she was near me—my love, my bride!
The summer hours may perish and go,
Their memories sweet will haunt me yet;
As long as the river shall onward flow,
Those evening hours I shall ne'er forget—
Those evening hours, that summer walk
By the river's bank, 'neath the fragrant limes;
Those whispers of love, that long low talk,
In that sweetest of all sweet summer times!