The Bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit dwells     In every little flower,     Each one its own sweet feeling breathes     With more or less of power.     There is a silent eloquence     In every wild bluebell     That fills my softened heart with bliss     That words could never tell.     Yet I recall not long ago     A bright and sunny day,     'Twas when I led a toilsome life     So many leagues away;     That day along a sunny road     All carelessly I strayed,     Between two banks where smiling flowers     Their varied hues displayed.     Before me rose a lofty hill,     Behind me lay the sea,     My heart was not so heavy then     As it was wont to be.     Less harassed than at other times     I saw the scene was fair,     And spoke and laughed to those around,     As if I knew no care.     But when I looked upon the bank     My wandering glances fell     Upon a little trembling flower,     A single sweet bluebell.     Whence came that rising in my throat,     That dimness in my eye?     Why did those burning drops distil,     Those bitter feelings rise?     O, that lone flower recalled to me     My happy childhood's hours     When bluebells seemed like fairy gifts     A prize among the flowers,     Those sunny days of merriment     When heart and soul were free,     And when I dwelt with kindred hearts     That loved and cared for me.     I had not then mid heartless crowds     To spend a thankless life     In seeking after others' weal     With anxious toil and strife.     'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful times     That never may return!'     The lovely floweret seemed to say,     And thus it made me mourn.