Oh! bring me the lily—the pure and the pale,
See, yonder it grows in the far lonely vale,
And its perfume is fanning the balmy breeze,
And the dewdrops gleam o'er its sheathlike leaves;
Oh! bring me that sweet flower, so pure and so pale,
Ere it shake in the rush of the night-wind's wail.
Oh! bring me the lily with its pearly light,
Ere nature shall fling o'er its blossoms a blight,
And the fair rose shall blush a far deeper red
When its lamps are pendant, its sweet breathing shed;
Oh! bring me the lily, the lily I'll wear
When I shall be shrouded with the loved and the fair.
Oh! bring me the lily, that springtide flower,
And I'll bear it away to my lonely bower;
And the white fairy bells o'er my lute shall sweep,
Like some sudden light zephyr which woke to weep;
And the strains shall be of thine early decay,
Thou Heaven breathing flower!—thou lily of the May.