Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
I come to your bowers,
Where the wild roses grow
And the eglantine flowers:
Where the trees and wild vines
In their spring-dress arrayed,
Entwine their green foliage
And weave the cool shade.
Oh! I come o'er the hills
By the moon's dewy light—
I come where the waters
Gush sparkling and bright—
Where the green woods are fresh,
And the cool valleys cheered
With the sweet mellow strains
Of the wild forest bird.
I come where the fountains
Their freshness diffuse,
And the flowers smile the sweetest,
Impearled with the dews.
In thy wild forest home,
Oh! I come to inhale
The pure balmy air
And the health-breathing gale.
Ye Nymphs of the woodlands!
Then dress your green bowers:
Bid vines spread their foliage,
And Spring wake her flowers.
Oh! bid your bright waters
Gush sparkling along,
And the wild forest bird
Charm the valleys with song;
For I come o'er the hills
To thy cool shady courts,
To quaff at thy fountains
And join in thy sports. |