 | A Day in the Woods |  |
335
SONG.
My Mary plucked a blushing rose,
To plant upon her lily breast;
The sweet flower bowed its crimson head;
And fondly pressed its snowy nest;
The silken leaves were gently stirred
As love, her heaving bosom shook,
Like the white plumage of a dove,
That coos beside some breezy brook.
To plant upon her lily breast;
The sweet flower bowed its crimson head;
And fondly pressed its snowy nest;
The silken leaves were gently stirred
As love, her heaving bosom shook,
Like the white plumage of a dove,
That coos beside some breezy brook.
O had I been that fragrant rose,
Which on her angel-bosom blushed;
Or revelled 'mid those love-winged sighs,
Whose breathing music none had hush'd,
Lived on the tumult of her heart,
And caught her eye in tranquil rest;
Or slept, where lay that cradled rose,
Then had I been for ever blest.
Which on her angel-bosom blushed;
Or revelled 'mid those love-winged sighs,
Whose breathing music none had hush'd,
Lived on the tumult of her heart,
And caught her eye in tranquil rest;
Or slept, where lay that cradled rose,
Then had I been for ever blest.
| A Day in the Woods | |