 | Original Songs (1861) |  |
66
SERENADE.
I
The lark has left the heath-flower bells,And gone to meet the sun, Mary;
The bees have left their busy cells,
To murmur where streams run, Mary.
Look how the vine-leaves glitter, dear,
Around thy lattice creeping!
The golden sun has long been there,
And through the casements peeping.
II
The throstle to its callow brood'Mid hawthorn blooms is singing;
The ring-dove's from the tall elm coo'd,
Round which the woodbine's clinging.
67
Their bells the dew still holding!
They wait, my love, till thou art there
To watch their buds unfolding.
III
And yet the landscape lacks a charm,As Eden did its Eve, Mary;
And till thou leanest on mine arm
The flowers will droop and grieve, Mary.
Then haste to the review, my dear!
Let us no longer dally:
Trumpets are ringing everywhere,
O'er hill, and wood, and valley.
T. M.
| Original Songs (1861) | |