DBOrS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 57 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest-boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves! 
Come forth, 0 ye children of gladness, come! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay. 
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen, — 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves arc dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 
But ye ! — ye arc changed since ye met me last! 
There is something bright from your features 
passed! 
There is that comes over your brow and eye, 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must 
die 
Ye smile; but your smile hath a dimness yet — 
0, what have you looked on since last we met? 
