Blend with the murmurings of the bee.
He knows when the wild-rose showers
Its blossoms o’er her breast;
When the summer-winds, ’mid flowers,
Whisper above her rest:
And he deems he hears, on his far-off shore,
The music of the cataract’s roar
From that Island of the Blest!
She passed from earth away—
The young, the beautiful,