The Bluebell

The Bluebell is the sweetest flowerThat waves in summer air:Its blossoms have the mightiest powerTo soothe my spirit's care.

There is a spell in purple heathToo wildly, sadly dear;The violet has a fragrant breath,But fragrance will not cheer.

The trees are bare, the sun is cold,And seldom, seldom seen;The heavens have lost their zone of gold,And earth her robe of green.

And ice upon the glancing streamHas cast its sombre shade;And distant hills and valleys seemIn frozen mist arrayed.

The Bluebell cannot charm me now,The heath has lost its bloom;The violets in the glen below,They yield no sweet perfume.But, though I mourn the sweet Bluebell,'Tis better far away;I know how fast my tears would swellTo see it smile to-day.

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fallAdown that dreary sky,And gild yon dank and darkened wallWith transient brilliancy,

How do I weep, how do I pineFor the time of flowers to come,And turn me from that fading shine,To mourn the fields of home!