As through the porch the minstrel slept—
His eye sweet Nature’s look enshrining.
He passed along the dewy sward,
The blue-bird sang aloft “good-morrow!”
He plucked a bud, the flower awoke
And smiled without one pang of sorrow.
He spoke of all that graced the scene
In tones that fell like music round us,
We felt the charm descend, nor strove
To break the rapturous spell that bound us.