Has no blighting frost, has no bitter blast
Cold, cold o’er their buds and their blossoms past?
If my name is said, are their leaves yet stirred
To the olden thrill at the cherished word?
And say, oh say, will those dear, heart flowers,
Still bloom for me in the Eden bowers?
AH, DO NOT SPEAK SO COLDLY.
Ballad.
WORDS BY