Down In Yon Summer Vale, Where The Rill Flows. Thus Said A Nightingale To His Loved Rose:-- "Tho' Rich The Pleasures "Of Song'S Sweet Measures, "Vain Were Its Melody, "Rose, Without Thee." Then From The Green Recess Of Her Night-Bower, Beaming With Bashfulness, Spoke The Bright Flower:-- "Tho' Morn Should Lend Her "Its Sunniest Splendor, "What Would The Rose Be, "Unsung By Thee?" Thus Still Let Song Attend Woman'S Bright Way; Thus Still Let Woman Lend Light To The Lay. Like Stars Thro' Heaven'S Sea Floating In Harmony Beauty Should Glide Along Circled By Song.