The Blue Bell

The blue bell is the sweetest flower     That waves in summer air;     Its blossoms have the mightiest power     To soothe my spirit's care.     There is a spell in purple heath     Too wildly, sadly dear;     The violet has a fragrant breath     But fragrance will not cheer.     The trees are bare, the sun is cold;     And seldom, seldom seen;     The heavens have lost their zone of gold     The earth its robe of green;     And ice upon the glancing stream     Has cast its sombre shade     And distant hills and valleys seem     In frozen mist arrayed     The blue bell cannot charm me now     The heath has lost its bloom,     The violets in the glen below     They yield no sweet perfume.     But though I mourn the heather-bell     'Tis better far, away;     I know how fast my tears would swell     To see it smile today;     And that wood flower that hides so shy     Beneath the mossy stone     Its balmy scent and dewy eye:     'Tis not for them I moan.     It is the slight and stately stem,     The blossom's silvery blue,     The buds hid like a sapphire gem     In sheaths of emerald hue.     'Tis these that breathe upon my heart     A calm and softening spell     That if it makes the tear-drop start     Has power to soothe as well.     For these I weep, so long divided     Through winter's dreary day,     In longing weep, but most when guided     On withered banks to stray.     If chilly then the light should fall     Adown the dreary sky     And gild the dank and darkened wall     With transient brilliancy,     How do I yearn, how do I pine     For the time of flowers to come,     And turn me from that fading shine     To mourn the fields of home