SCARLET PIMPERNEL. 73 



It is full sad to think, 



As I gaze on the brink, 

 Of the streana, in its deep and fresh flowing j 



Of the primrose and blue-bell, 



In my own native dell. 

 And of hours that with rapture were glowing. 



! the glee of those hours. 



Young hands fill'd with flowers. 

 True words in their freshness then spoken ! 



But the bright eyes that shone, 



Are by tears dimm'd, or gone. 

 And the buoyant young spirits are broken. 



They were broken too soon. 



Few of those reach'd their noon. 

 Whose young steps on the green sod were springing ; 



But I still am left, 



Of those loved ones bereft. 

 To list to the birds' blithsome singing. 



