With deeper eloquence than notes divine,
Of many things that round our heart-strings twine,
And in our fancies dwell;
Of boyhood's sportive days,
The thymy glade, the daisy blooming there,
The vale remote, or lake secluded, where
The smiling sunbeam plays;
The gay flowers on the plain,
Gemming the mead, perfuming all the wood;
As if each Summer morn was Spring renew'd,