The morn is up! wake, Beauty, wake!
The flower is on the lea,
The blackbird sings within the brake,
The thrush is on the tree;
Forth to the balmy fields repair,
And let the breezes mild
Lift from thy brow the falling hair,
And fan my little child--
Yet if thy step be 'mid the dews,
Beauty! be sure to change your shoes!
'Tis noon! the butterfly springs up,
High from her couch of rest,
And scorns the little blue-bell cup
Which all night long she press'd.
Away! we'll seek the walnut's shade,
And pass the sunny hour,
The bee within the rose is laid,
And veils him in the flower;
Mark not the lustre of his wing,
Beauty! be careful of his sting!
'Tis eve! but the retiring ray
A halo deigns to cast
Round scenes on which it shone all day,
And gilds them to the last:
Thus, ere thine eyelids close in sleep,
Let Memory deign to flee
Far o'er the mountain and the deep,
To cast one beam on me!
Yes, Beauty! 'tis mine inmost prayer--
But don't forget to curl your hair!
_Blackwood's Mag._
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