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 blind 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. 5   Oh! little lock of golden hue,      In gently waving ringlet curl’d   By the dear head on which you grow,      I would not lose you for a world. 6   Not though a thousand more adorn      The polish’d brow where once you shone,   Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,      Beneath Columbia’s fervid zone.