  Oh! the happy summer hours, With their butterflies and flowers, And the birds among the bowers Sweetly singing; With the spices from the trees, Vines, and lilies, while the bees Come floating on the breeze, Honey bringing! All the east was rosy red When we woke and left our bed, And to gather flowers we sped, Gay and early. And the spider’s silky net, With a thousand dew-drops set, Pure and pearly. With their modest eyes of blue, Were the violets peeping through Tufts of grasses where they grew, Full of beauty, At the lamb in snowy white, O’er the meadow bounding light, And the crow just taking flight, Grave and sooty. On our floral search intent, Still away, away we went,— Up and down the rugged bent,— Through the wicket,— Where the rock with water drops,— Through the bushes and the copse,— Where the greenwood pathway stops In the thicket. We heard the fountain gush, And the singing of the thrush; And we saw the squirrel’s brush In the hedges, As along his back ’twas thrown, Like a glory of his own, While the sun behind it, shone Through its edges. All the world appeared so fair, And so fresh and free the air,— Oh! it seemed that all the care In creation And that none beneath his throne, Need to murmur or to groan At his station. Dear little brother Will! He has leapt the hedge and rill,— He has clambered up the hill, Ere the beaming Of the rising sun, to sweep With its golden rays the steep, Till he’s tired and dropt asleep, Sweetly dreaming. See, he threw aside his cap, And the roses from his lap, When his eyes were, for the nap, Slowly closing: With his sunny curls outspread, On its fragrant mossy bed, Now his precious infant head Is reposing. He is dreaming of his play— How he rose at break of day, And he frolicked all the way On his ramble. And before his fancy’s eye, He has still the butterfly Mocking him, where not so high He could scramble. In his cheek the dimples dip, And a smile is on his lip, While his tender finger-tip Seems as aiming That is out upon the wing, Which he longs to catch and bring Home for taming. While he thus at rest is laid In the old oak’s quiet shade, Let’s cull our flowers to braid, Or unite them In bunches trim and neat, That, for every friend we meet, We may have a token sweet To delight them. ’Tis the very crowning art Of a happy, grateful heart To others to impart Of its pleasure. Thus its joys can never cease, For it brings an inward peace, Like an every-day increase Of a treasure! |
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