A coronet green to the mountains I gave,
And a robe of blue to each laughing wave;
With verdure I clothed each mouldering pile,
And laughed at the glory of man the while,
For I thought how old Time had trampled in scorn,
O’er the monuments proud of yesterday’s morn.
I come! I come! with the song of the thrush,
To wake with its sweetness the morning’s blush;
To hang on the hawthorn my blossoms fair,
And strew o’er each field my flowrets rare.