114 <£o.fo£ltp. 
Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, 
When first the wildwood rings 
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, 
When fresh the green grass springs 1 
What can the blessed spring restore 
More gladdening than your charms ? 
Bringing the memory once more 
Of lovely fields and farms! 
Of thickets, breezes, birds, and flowers; 
Of life's unfolding prime; 
Of thoughts as cloudless as the hours; 
Of souls without a crime. 
Oh! blessed, blessed do ye seem, 
Bor, even now, I turned, 
With soul athirst for wood and stream, 
Prom streets that glared and burned. 
Prom the hot town, where mortal care 
His crowded fold doth pen; 
Where stagnates the polluted air 
In many a sultry den. 
And ye are here! and ye are here 1 
Drinking the dew-like wine, 
Midst living gales and waters clear, 
And heaven’s unstinted shine. 
I care not that your little life 
Will quickly have run thrqjigh, 
And the sward, with summer children rife, 
Keep not a trace of you. 
Por again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When spring renews the wildwood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. 
