83
THE WREATH OF SPRING.
I rov'd in the meadows, the vales, and the bowers,
While the leaves were bespangled with dew;
And I cull'd in profusion the blossoms and flowers,
Excelling in fragrance and hue.
The primrose of spring in the wreath I combin'd,
And the violet modest and pale;
And there the wild roses and myrtles entwin'd,
With the lily which droops in the vale.
The harebell that smiles in the dingle I sought,
Of the softest ethereal blue;
And then to Celinda the garland I brought,
While the buds were all shining in dew.
"Oh! take the sweet flowers in their beauty," I said,
"While yet they are lovely and gay;
"For soon, my Celinda, their bloom will be fled,
"Too early they wither away.
"This lily so gracefully languid and fair,
"Might have faded unseen in the grove;
"Yet the balm of its odour was borne on the air,
"And it weeps in the wreath of my love.
