George Hill (1796–1871)

NOW Heaven seems one bright, rejoicing eye;

And Earth her sleeping vesture flings aside,

And with a blush awakes as does a bride;

And Nature speaks, like thee, in melody.

The forest, sunward, glistens, green and high;

The ground each moment, as some blossom springs,

Puts forth, as does thy cheek, a lovelier dye;

And each new morning some new songster brings.

And, hark! the brooks their rocky prisons break,

And echo calls on echo to awake,

Like nymph to nymph. The air is rife with wings,

Rustling through wood or dripping over lake.

Herb, bud, and bird return,—but not to me

With song or beauty, since they bring not thee.