 | Metrical essays |  |
129
THE PEASANT GIRL'S SONG.
I
From the fields—from the fields—I have gather'd fresh flowers;
The sweetest and rarest
That grace summer hours:
I've roses—wild roses—
Which beam in their light,
Like the lips of a beauty,
All balmy and bright.
130
II
From the streams—from the streams—Hidden far in the glade;
Soft gliding and sounding,
Mid sunshine and shade;
Dark violets I 've gather'd,
And lilies—like snow—
Or beautiful pearl-wreaths
Upon a queen's brow.
III
From the woods—from the woods—Where the bird-songs are gay;
And where young lovers walk,
In the clear moon-ray:
I have flowers of all hues—
Like a rich sunset sky,
Gold—purple—and crimson—
O! come, come and buy!
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