And health is abroad on each mountain and dale.
Come forth, for the lark is alive with his song,
And the bound of my pulses is life-like and strong;
It is gladness to see the wild fire of thine eye,
And feel thy light tread as the breeze rushes by.
Come forth, my own Arab, the Sun is asleep,
And the tears of the morning thy dark mane shall steep;
Thou shalt drink from the gushes of Summer’s cool streams,
E’er the flow of the fountain is tipt with morn’s beams.
Come forth to the greenwood whilst perfume is there,