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4
Ere the bloom of that valley shall ⟨fade⟩ from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed ⟨o'er⟩ the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest ⟨of⟩ green,
It was not the soft magic of ⟨streamlet⟩ or rill,
Ah! no, it was something more exquisite still.
Twas that friends the beloved of my bosom were near,
Who made every scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms ⟨of⟩ nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Ovoca, how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best;
When the storms which we feel in this cold world would cease,
