She died in beauty! like a lay
Along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty! like the song
Of birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty! like the snow
On flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty! like a star
Lost on the brow of day.
She lives in glory! like night's gems
Set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory! like the sun
Amid the blue of June!
THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.
Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;
While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers—
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,
For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,
And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,
That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever—
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,
And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,
And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming
On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.
Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,
Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells—
Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together—
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.