4 Oh !” then, in pleading strain, cried she, 
“ Too lovely shepherd of the bower! 
Would that I were, till plucked by thee, 
The green wood’s sweetest flower. 
“ And fading, on thy gentle breast 
One happy, happy moment lie, 
Once to thy heart be fondly pressed, 
And then, rejoicing, die.” 
One luckless morn this lover flew 
O’er dells and dingles to the grove, 
To greet with flowrets bathed in dew 
The birth-day of his love. 
Alas ! he flew with careless speed, 
For he right gladsome was and young, 
And crushed the Hare-bell of the mead. 
Who thus her death-lay sung: 
4< O, shepherd, so beloved by me 
My early doom I joyous meet, 
Too happy, since disdained by thee, 
To perish at thy feet.” 
