the wild daisy springs, there all fresh from his flight,
And all blithe as he sings will the glad Lark alight ;
Where the starry tuft blossoming hides his young nest,
There his softly-descending wing loves the buds best.
Where remote in the thorny vale sweet briars swell,
There the Nightingale chants his full roundelay well ;
'Tis to sooth his love's vernal choice, hush'd in repose,
That he pours forth his mellow voice from the wild rose.
As that wild daisy, lovely art thou, my young bride,
Thou art fresh as this wild rose all new in it's pride !
Thou art that without speck ; thou art this without thorn ;
And thy bosom is pure as their dew in the morn !
Not so dear is his nest to the Lark from on high,
Nor the glance of his mate to the Nightingale's eye,
As thy sight is to me through the cloud of my cares ;
And the song sung to thee should be sweeter than theirs !
Though the skill is denied to tune melody's string,
Thus the will my young bride to thy beauty would sing ;
Because my soul's pleasure is all where Thou art,
For wherever the treasure is, there is the heart.