Page:National Lyrics.pdf/281



tell me not the woods are fair Now Spring is on her way; Well, well I know how brightly there In joy the young leaves play; How sweet on winds of morn or eve The violet's breath may be;— —Yet ask me, woo me not to leave My lone rock by the sea.

The wild wave's thunder on the shore, The curlew's restless cries, Unto my watching heart are more Than all earth's melodies.