THE GROVE OF BROOM.
75
An angel, mid the woods of May,
Embroidered it with radiance gay—
That gossamer with gold bedight—
Those fires of God—those gems of light!
’Tis sweet those magic bowers to find,
With the fair vineyards intertwined;
Amid the woods their jewels rise,
Like gleam of starlight o’er the skies—
Like golden bullion, glorious prize!
How sweet the flowers that deck that floor,
In one unbroken glory blended—
Those glittering branches hovering o’er—
Veil by an angel’s hand extended.
Oh! if my love will come, her bard
Will, with his care, her footsteps guard,
There, where no stranger dares to pry,
Beneath yon Broom’s green canopy!
