Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune 
Than ye speak to my heart, little wildlings of June: 
Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 
Where I thought it delightful your beauties to find, 
When the magic of Nature first breathed on my 
mind, 
And your blossoms were part of her spell. 
E’en now what affections the violet awakes I 
What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, 
Can the wild water-lily restore! 
What landscapes I read in the primrose’s looks, 
And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks 
In the vetches that tangled their shore! 
Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart ye were dear, 
Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear 
Had scathed my existence’s bloom; 
Once I welcome you more, in life’s passionless 
stage, 
With the visions of youth to revisit my age, 
And I wish you to grow on my tomb. 
