Thy breezes scent the rose's breath;
Old Time gives thee her palm. [5]
The lark's shrill song doth wake the dawn;
The eve-bird's forest flute
Gives back some maiden melody,
Too pure for aught so mute.
The fairy-peopled world of flowers, [10]
Enraptured by thy spell,
Looks love unto the laughing hours,
Through woodland, grove, and dell;