Page:Felicia Hemans in The Bijou 1828.pdf/4

 These are old words, that have made each grove A dreary haunt for romance and love; Each sunny bank, where faint odours lie A place for the gushings of Poesy.

Thou know'st not the light wherewith fairy lore Sprinkles the turf and the daisies o'er; Enough for thee are the dews that sleep Like hidden gems in the flower-urns deep; Enough the rich crimson spots that dwell Midst the gold of the cowslip's perfumed cell; And the scent by the blossoming sweet-briars shed, And the beauty that bows the wood-hyacinth's head.

Oh! happy child in thy fawn-like glee! What is remembrance or thought to thee? Fill thy bright locks with those gifts of spring, O'er thy green pathway their colours fling; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon— What if to droop and to perish soon? Nature hath mines of such wealth—and thou Never wilt prize its delights as now!

For a day is coming to quell the tone That rings in thy laughter, thou joyous one! And to dim thy brow with a touch of care, Under the gloss of its clustering hair;