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Oh! fragrant dwellers of the lea, 
When first the wildwood rings 
With each sound of vernal minstrelsy, 
When fresh the green grass springs ! 
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, 
For, even now, I turned, 
With soul athirst for wood and stream, 
From streets that glared and burned. 
From 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! 
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 through, 
And the sward, with summer children rife, 
Keep not a trace of you. 
For again, again, on dewy plain, 
I trust to see you rise, 
When spring renews the wildwood strain, 
And bluer gleam the skies. 
