The sweet South-wind is breathing o'er
Fair beauty's flower of love;
The birds a gladsome song do pour
On all—around—above:
The dew-drops bright, the green grass lave,
Alas! it grows upon thy grave.
The earth is glad—the spring is here,
The woods—the fields rejoice;
Why falls the sad—the silent tear,
While listening to her voice?
'Tis that we miss thee on the lawn—
Dearest, ah! wherefore art thou gone?
And yet 'tis selfish to repine
At thy far happier fate;
The storms of life may be but mine,
The worldling's scorn or hate:
I prized them not—so I might twine
In filial love thy hand with mine.
All is too bright—the Heavens above,
The sun—the stars—the flowers,
Mocking the mournful heart with love,
Within its lonely bowers:
Alas! ah, what avails the bloom?
Save that it waves above thy tomb!