Of the primrose-tufts in the grass beneath,
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell,
Holy and precious—oh, guard it well!
By the sleepy ripple of the stream,
Which hath lull’d thee into many a dream,
By the shiver of the ivy leaves
To the wind of morn at thy casement eaves,
By the bee’s deep murmur in the limes,
By the music of the Sabbath chimes,
By every sound of thy native shade,