72 SCARLET PIMPERNEL. 



The torrent is foaming, 



Its waters are roaming, 

 Adown the deep glade by the side of the hill ; 



Where the wild bird is singing, 



And blue bells are springing, 

 And the cowslip and primrose are lingering still. 



Ah ! linger ye yet, 



With pearly dew wet, 

 No step o'er the green sod is speeding ; 



And a few stars on high, 



Still look down from the sky. 

 While the pomp of the night is receding. 



Ye innocent flowers. 



Beloved in bright hours. 

 Ere the young heart had yielded its gladness ; 



I would gaze on ye still, 



By the gush of the rill. 

 In the depth of my spirit's lone sadness. 



