 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
Song—“Oh, Where?”
I
Sweet violets, we joy to hailYour lovely blooms once more,
Cærulean purple, snowy pale,
And fragrant as of yore;
Oh, where
Hide ye your petals fair,
Before
Mysterious winds of March
Come wandering down the sheltered vale
And tuft with rose the larch?
II
Sweet nightingales, we joy to hearYour happy wild-wood song,
Thrilling once more the moonlight clear
With music soft and strong;
102
Hide ye through Winter bare
And long,
Before the voice of Spring
Bids you return to charm our ear,
On ocean-wandering wing?
III
Dear saints in heaven, arrayed in light,Singing to harps of gold,
Your glory ravishes my sight;
Where wandered ye of old?
Oh, where
Found ye that beauty rare—
Untold?
“'Neath a dim Tree on earth,
We washed our robes and made them white,
And tuned our harps to mirth!”
| Lyra Pastoralis | |