Through the long bright hours of the summer day;
They find the red cup-moss where they climb,
And they chase the bee o’er the scented thyme,
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know—
Lady, kind lady! oh, let me go!”
“Content thee, boy! in my bower to dwell—
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon,
Harps which the wandering breezes tune,
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird