Should be the azure of thine eye;
And every flower that decks the field
In thy pure brow and cheek revealed;
Where gazing on thy face the while,
And basking in thy sunny smile,
Like some fair river’s noiseless tide
The stream of passing years should glide;
And like the clear and gushing spring,
Life’s fount still new-born raptures fling.
There, when in happiness grown old,