Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

Flow on, thou shining river;

    But ere thou reach the sea

Seek Ella’s bower and give her

    The wreaths I fling o’er thee

And tell her thus, if she’ll be mine

    The current of our lives shall be,

With joys along their course to shine,

    Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither

    Thou find’st she mocks my prayer,

Then leave those wreaths to wither

    Upon the cold bank there;

And tell her thus, when youth is o’er,

    Her lone and loveless Charms shall be

Thrown by upon life’s weedy shore.

    Like those sweet flowers from thee.