And thou sing’st hymns to them!
While silent showers are falling slow,
And, 'mid the general hush,
A sweet air lifts the little bough,
Lone whispering through the bush!
The primrose to the grave is gone;
The hawthorn flower is dead;
The violet by the moss’d gray stone
Hath laid her weary head;
But thou, wild bramble! back dost bring,