ON A PICTURE.
 
        When Summer o'er her native hills
            A veil of beauty spread,
        She sat and watched her gentle fold,
            And twined her flaxen thread.
 
        The mountain daisies kissed her feet,
            The moss sprung greenest there;
        The breath of Summer fanned her cheek,
            And tossed her wavy hair.
 
        The heather and the yellow gorse
            Bloomed over hill and wold,
        And clothed them in a royal robe
            Of purple and of gold.
 
        There rose the sky-lark's gushing song;
            There hummed the laboring bee;
        And merrily the mountain stream
            Ran singing to the sea.
 
        But while she missed from those sweet sounds,
            The voice she sighed to hear;
        The song of bee, and bird, and stream,
            Was discord to her ear.
 
        Nor could the bright green world around
            A joy to her impart,
        For still she missed the eyes that made
            The summer of her heart.