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E'en she, whose playful fondness still
Attends my steps on dale or hill,
She, who still wears the victor blue,
Maria of the raven hue!
No longer seeks with frolic glee,
Where'er I roam, to follow me,
But shrinks within her shelter warm,
And hides in straw her graceful form.
Attends my steps on dale or hill,
She, who still wears the victor blue,
Maria of the raven hue!
No longer seeks with frolic glee,
Where'er I roam, to follow me,
But shrinks within her shelter warm,
And hides in straw her graceful form.
Yet lovelier is the magic scene,
Than blooming summer's brightest green:
The icicles in crystal row
Suspended from the pent-house low,
O'er the luxuriant ivy fall,
Or glitter on the moss-grown wall;
The level lawn, in dazzling light,
Array'd in pure unsullied white,
Scarce marks, with undulating bend,
With its smooth edge, where waters blend.
Than blooming summer's brightest green:
The icicles in crystal row
Suspended from the pent-house low,
O'er the luxuriant ivy fall,
Or glitter on the moss-grown wall;
The level lawn, in dazzling light,
Array'd in pure unsullied white,
Scarce marks, with undulating bend,
With its smooth edge, where waters blend.
