7
SONG OF THE FLOWERS.
See, we come dancing in sunshine and showers,
Like fairies or butterflies—bright young Flowers;
O'er vale and o'er mountain, though ever so steep,
Go wander—well still on your rambles peep.
Far from the city and smoke live we,
With our neighbour, the rugged old forest-tree,
Who, wrapped in his mantle of ivy green,
Looks gay,—for his wrinkles are never seen.
With the zephyrs we dance
'Neath the bright warm sun;
But the moon's pale glance
Bids our sport be done,—
Then we close our petals, nor, winking, peep
Till the morning breaks our perfumed sleep.
Oh! are we not beautiful, bright young Flowers,
In stately garden or wild-wood bowers?
To us doth the lover his love compare;
Then, think ye, can aught be more sweet or fair?
Her brow is the lily, her cheek the rose,
Her kiss is the woodbine (more sweet than those);
Her eye in the half-shut violet beams,
When a bright dew-drop on its lustre gleams;
