The Bluebell is the sweetest
That waves in summer air:
Its blossoms have the mightiest
To soothe my spirit's care.
There is a spell in purple
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer,
The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing
Has cast its sombre shade;
And distant hills and valleys
In frozen mist arrayed.
The Bluebell cannot charm me now,
The heath has lost its bloom;
The violets in the glen below,
They yield no sweet perfume.
But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,'Tis better far away;
I know how fast my tears would
To see it smile to-day.
For, oh! when chill the sunbeams
Adown that dreary sky,
And gild yon dank and darkened
With transient brilliancy;
How do I weep, how do I
For the time of flowers to come,
And turn me from that fading shine,
To mourn the fields of home!
