I SENT a ring—a little band   Of emerald and ruby stone, And bade it, sparkling on thy hand,   Tell thee sweet tales of one     Whose constant memory     Was full of loveliness, and thee.

A shell was graven on its gold,—   'Twas Cupid fix'd without his wings— To Helene once it would have told   More than was ever told by rings:     But now all 's past and gone,     Her love is buried with that stone.

Thou shalt not see the tears that start   From eyes by thoughts like these beguiled; Thou shalt not know the beating heart,   Ever a victim and a child:     Yet Helene, love, believe     The heart that never could deceive.

I'll hear thy voice of melody   In the sweet whispers of the air; I'll see the brightness of thine eye   In the blue evening's dewy star;     In crystal streams thy purity;     And look on Heaven to look on thee.