The roses of two summers shed
Their fragrant petals on her head,
When on the green and daised bed,
With wilding flowers and toys bespread,
The child was set to play.
A silver birch lean'd o'er the ground,
And there, dear Dora, I have found,
A long soft band her waist enwound,
And to the tender sapling bound,
That so she might not stray.
And there, for hours each summer day,
The hermit babe would sing and play
Alone with Nature, pleased and gay,
For strangers seldom came that way,
And playmates she had none.
Oft to her father's knee she went
When he would read, with ear intent,
And speaking eye, where thought was blent,
With feeling deep, that found a vent
When she was all alone.
Like warbling linnet's song would flow
Her silver tones, soft, sweet, and low;
All beauteous things she seemed to know--
Her sobs would rise, her tears would flow
At piteous song or tale.
How pale, how spiritual and sweet
The smiling face that wont to greet
Me through the pane, then run to meet,
And fill my hand with cowslips sweet,
And lilies of the vale.
Then to her own dear flow'ry nook,
Beneath the birch, our way we took;
Some favourite poem from the book
She held-would read with sparkling look,
And curious, quaint comment.
Six summers had their roses shed
Upon the infant poet's head,
When on her white and death cold bed
A withered rose lay Dora-dead :
Heaven took what it had lent.
Now o'er the laughing meadows,
Throned on her dewy ear,
Queenly May comes with her train,
From southern climes afar,
To seek her woodland palace,
Where thousand minstrels swell
The choral hymn that hails her
In forest, copse, and dell.
Sweetly tinged with sapphire hue
Is spread a carpet fair;
Down by Luggie's fairy stream,
The hyacinth beds are there,
Golden cups and crimson bells
Wave o'er the margin green,
Blossomed thorn and birch perfume
The palace of the Queen.
Pinky buds on scented brier
Their dewy lips unclose;
Fair sultana of the dell,
The blushing wilding rose; Mossy cushions swell around,
With sorrel pearls gleaming; The honeysuckle clasps the rock, With flowery tendrils streaming.
Meadows sweet, whose golden hair
Sheds out a rich perfume,
Stately foxglove, rearing high
A tower of purple bloom.
Gazing with her soft blue eye
On the dancing waters,
See the sweet forget-me-not,
Beloved of beauty's daughters.
Hark the blackbird's dulcet notes,
Thrush and linnet singing;
Hark that maiden's melting lay,
Answering echoes ringing;
Waking up the sleeping trees,
Whispering to the flowers,
The breeze salutes, with kisses soft,
The blossoms on the bowers.
Queen of flowers, of love, and song,
How sweet with thee to dwell,
And linger by the fairy stream
In Luggie's lovely dell.
Sweeter, purer bliss was mine
When last the dell I trode,
I looked on Nature, "looking up,
Through her, to Nature's God."
WHY darkly veiled, like mourning bride,
Com'st thou, sweet June ?-Why dost thou hide
Thy glowing charms and lustrous eyes
Beneath a cloudy, cold disguise,
Fair Nature's bosom chilling?
Thy sister, May, gave promise fair
Of golden sunshine, balmy air:
She, rich in thousand floral charms,
Drooped, languished, in thy cruel arms,
Thy cold embraces killing.
Sweet song-birds! ye who watched and sung
Beside the cradle of your young,
In bush or bough, oh! oft unfold
Your wings, to shield from cruel cold
Your downy, callow treasure.
The thorn is white with odorous blossom,
The water-lily on the bosom
Of the lone sleeping lake reposes,
The briery banks are starred with roses
Why frownest thou on our pleasures.
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