 | Moral songs |  |
VIOLETS.
The tall trees rustle o'er my head
As I roam through the wood,
The squirrel startles at my tread,
And drops his acorn food.
As I roam through the wood,
The squirrel startles at my tread,
And drops his acorn food.
The ivy green doth gaily grow,
And clasp the rough old trees,
What is there growing down below
That sweetens thus the breeze?
And clasp the rough old trees,
What is there growing down below
That sweetens thus the breeze?
Close round the roots of yon oak tree,
The green moss peeping through,
Small tufts of violets I see,
With leaves so darkly blue.
The green moss peeping through,
Small tufts of violets I see,
With leaves so darkly blue.
As I have seen an Autumn sky,
When suns were setting low
As I have seen a lady's eye
Beneath her brow of snow.
When suns were setting low
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Beneath her brow of snow.
I'll rest awhile in these green bowers,
Amid the moss and fern;
What lesson have you, pretty flowers,
A little child may learn?
Amid the moss and fern;
What lesson have you, pretty flowers,
A little child may learn?
I read it in your fragrant scent,
Your heads bowed down to earth,
Ye teach a lesson of content,
Sweet smiles and modest mirth.
Your heads bowed down to earth,
Ye teach a lesson of content,
Sweet smiles and modest mirth.
Ye grow so small, so weak, so wild,
In this neglected spot,
Most like unto a simple child,
That hath a lowly lot.
In this neglected spot,
Most like unto a simple child,
That hath a lowly lot.
Ye grow so sweet, your fragrance rare
Doth fill the lonely dell,
And cottage homes are blest and fair,
Where gentle children dwell.
Doth fill the lonely dell,
And cottage homes are blest and fair,
Where gentle children dwell.
The winds of Spring are loud and chill,
The Summer sun is hot,
Ye grow as fair and fragrant still,
As if ye felt them not.
The Summer sun is hot,
Ye grow as fair and fragrant still,
As if ye felt them not.
And storms will vex the quiet home,
Of tempers loud and rude,
There pain or grief perchance may come,
Or chilling want intrude.
Of tempers loud and rude,
There pain or grief perchance may come,
Or chilling want intrude.
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But patience has a charm to meet,
And soothe the darkest hour;
Good humour has a breath more sweet,
Than any woodland flower.
And soothe the darkest hour;
Good humour has a breath more sweet,
Than any woodland flower.
Your lesson have I rightly read,
Meek lovers of the shade?
Then round my path your perfume shed,
And sweeten all the glade.
Meek lovers of the shade?
Then round my path your perfume shed,
And sweeten all the glade.
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