ROSENEATH.
Oh! I would tell of the bright, bright sky,
Of the perfumed zephyr hovering nigh,
Of the heath-clad hill, whose purple hue
Rose o'er the wrapt and wondering view,—
Of the glassy lake, whose mirrored sheen
Reflected o'er the sun-bright scene.
No wave or wind in terror rose,
To wake the deep and calm repose.
Oh! I would sing of each tiny flower
That blushed its fragrance on that hour,
Smiling in beauty far and wide,
Like sun-rays o'er the silvery tide;
And the voice of music floated there
From woody warblers of the air:
No "hum or shock" of man was near
To break upon the listening ear,
Or wake the deep impassioned tone
That haunts the soul of man alone.
Of the perfumed zephyr hovering nigh,
Of the heath-clad hill, whose purple hue
Rose o'er the wrapt and wondering view,—
Of the glassy lake, whose mirrored sheen
Reflected o'er the sun-bright scene.
No wave or wind in terror rose,
To wake the deep and calm repose.
Oh! I would sing of each tiny flower
That blushed its fragrance on that hour,
Smiling in beauty far and wide,
Like sun-rays o'er the silvery tide;
And the voice of music floated there
From woody warblers of the air:
No "hum or shock" of man was near
To break upon the listening ear,
Or wake the deep impassioned tone
That haunts the soul of man alone.
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