  O come to the meadows! I'll show you where Primrose and violet blow, And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair, White as the driven snow. I'll show you where the daisies dot With silver stars the lea, The orchis, and forget-me-not, The flower of memory! The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet, That love the river's side, The reed that bows the wave to meet, And sighs above the tide. Aloft its yellow crest, The lily in whose cup the tears Of morn delight to rest. The first in Nature's dainty wreath, We'll cull the brier-rose, The crowfoot and the purple heath, And pink that sweetly blows. The hare-bell with its airy flowers Shall deck my Laura's breast,— Of all that bud in woodland bowers I love the hare-bell best! I'll pull the bonny golden broom To bind thy flowing hair; For thee the eglantine shall bloom, Whose fragrance fills the air. To hear the blackbird sing, And fancy in his merry troll The joyous voice of spring! We'll sit and watch the sparkling waves That leap exulting by, Whilst in the pines above us raves The wind's wild minstrelsy. It swells the echoes of the grove, 'Tis Nature's plaintive voice; The winds and waters breathe of love, And all her tribes rejoice. Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours, We'll rove the verdant glade; But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers, Like us, but bloom to fade. And live their little day, Then droop, and wither, one by one, Till all are passed away. Already scattered in the dust My first May garland lies; The hope that owns a mortal trust, As quickly fades and dies. Then let us seek a brighter wreath Than Nature here has given; The flowers of virtue bud beneath, But only bloom in heaven! |
|
