Sometimes we crown The castle's dizziest tower, and look Laughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below, Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high; And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea's breast Looks from his couch of glory up, And lights the dew in the Harebell's cup. We are crowning the mountain With azure bells, Or decking the fountain In forest dells, Or wreathing the ruin with clusters gay, Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we Go to the high road-we'll meet ye there. Oh! where is the flower that content may tell Like the laughing, and, nodding, and dancing Hare bell? FOXGLOVES AND FERN. The Foxgloves and the Fern, With grand old oaks above them, The stately trees stand round Like columns fair and high, And the spreading branches bear Of leaves, that rustling wave In the whispering summer air, And gaily greet the sunbeams That are falling brightly there. The miser-leaves! - they suffer Not a gleam to twinkle through, But to her soft lips not one. Hid in each purple bell |