George Pope Morris (Джордж Поуп Моррис)
Oh, Would That She Were Here!
Oh, would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By Echo's airy tongue: Where jocund nature smiles In all her boon attire, And roams the deeply-tangled wilds Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. Oh, would that she were here— The gentle maid I sing, Whose voice is cheerful as the songs Of forest-birds in spring! Oh, would that she were here, Where the free waters leap, Shouting in sportive joyousness Adown the rocky steep: Where zephyrs crisp and cool The fountains as they play, With health upon their wings of light, And gladness on their way. Oh, would that she were here, With these balm-breathing trees, The sylvan daughters of the sun, The rain-cloud, and the breeze! Oh, would that she were here, Where glide the rosy hours, Murm'ring the drowsy hum of bees, And fragrant with the flowers: Where Heaven's redeeming love Spans earth in Mercy's bow— The promise of the world above Unto the world below. Oh, would that she were here, Amid these shades serene— Oh, for the spell of woman's love, To consecrate the scene!
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