T 



THE BLUEBELL 



HE Bluebell is the sweetest flower 

 That waves in summer air : 



Its blossoms have the mightiest power 

 To soothe my spirit's care. 



There is a spell in purple heath 



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 stream 



Has cast its sombre shade ; 

 And distant hills and valleys seem 



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 swell 



To see it smile to-day. 



59 



