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First from her maiden's circling arms
The youngest (and perchance the bride
Preferred for her retiring charms)
Has lightly sprung, and flung aside
Her ornaments—and those rich pearls,
The diamonds, and the ruby studs,
She showers among the weeping girls
Blithely, as when her garden's buds
She scattered in those blissful hours,
When life itself seemed made of flowers
The croud is hushed to silence—now
Her spirit soars on bird-like wings,
A slight flush lights her gentle brow,
And with a voice divine she sings.
I love, I love my native vales!
The sighing of their perfumed gales
To me is sweet, and sweeter still
The music of the bubbling rill.
