THE BLUEBELLS OF NEW ENGLAND.
THE roses are a regal troop, And modest folk the daisies; But, Bluebells of New England, To you I give my praises—
To you, fair phantoms in the sun, Whom merry Spring discovers, With bluebirds for your laureates, And honey-bees for lovers.
The south-wind breathes, and lo! you throng This rugged land of ours: I think the pale blue clouds of May Drop down, and turn to flowers!
By cottage doors along the roads You show your winsome faces, And, like the spectre lady, haunt The lonely woodland places.