II. THE BLUEBELL
The Bluebell is the sweetest
flower
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest
power
To soothe my spirit's care.
There is a spell in purple
heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant
breath,
But fragrance will not cheer,
The trees are bare, the sun
is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their
zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing
stream
Has cast its sombre shade;
And distant hills and valleys
seem
In frozen mist arrayed.
The Bluebell cannot charm
me now,
The heath has lost its bloom;
The violets in the glen
below,
They yield no sweet perfume.
But, though I mourn the sweet
Bluebell,
'Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears
would swell
To see it smile to-day.
For, oh! when chill the sunbeams
fall
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened
wall
With transient brilliancy;
How do I weep, how do I pine
For the time of flowers
to come,
And turn me from that fading
shine,
To mourn the fields of home! |
