Thy birth was in the forest shades;

Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,

Were all that met thine infant eye.

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,

Were ever in the sylvan wild;

And all the beauty of the place

Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks

Is in the light shade of thy locks;

Thy step is as the wind, that weaves

Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene

And silent waters heaven is seen;

Their lashes are the herbs that look

On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths, by foot unpressed,

Are not more sinless than thy breast;

The holy peace that fills the air

Of those calm solitudes, is there.