Shed no tear – O shed no tear!

      The flower will bloom another year.

      Weep no more – O weep no more!

      Young buds sleep in the root’s white core.

      Dry your eyes – O dry your eyes,

      For I was taught in Paradise

      To ease my breast of melodies -

      Shed no tear.

      Overhead – look overhead

      ‘Mong the blossoms white and red -

      Look up, look up – I flutter now

      On this flush pomegranate bough -

      See me – ’tis this silvery bill

      Ever cures the good man’s ill -

      Shed no tear – O shed no tear!

      The flower will bloom another year,

      Adieu – Adieu – I fly, adieu,

      I vanish in the heaven’s blue -

      Adieu, Adieu!

      Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing!

      That I must chant thy lady’s dirge,

      And death to this fair haunt of spring,

      Of melody, and streams of flowery verge, -

      Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me!

      That I must see

      These blossoms snow upon thy lady’s pall!

      Go, pretty page! and in her ear

      Whisper that the hour is near!

      Softly tell her not to fear

      Such calm favonian burial!

      Go, pretty page! and soothly tell, -

      The blossoms hang by a melting spell,

      And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice

      Upon her closed eyes,

      That now in vain are weeping their last tears,

      At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green, -

      Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres, -

      Alas! poor Queen!

      Give me your patience Sister while I frame

      Exact in capitals your golden name

      Or sue the fair Apollo and he will

      Rouse from his heavy slumber and instil

      Great love in me for thee and Poesy.

      Imagine not that greatest mastery

      And kingdom over all the realms of verse

      Nears more to heaven in aught than when we nurse

      And surety give to love and brotherhood.

      Anthropophagi in Othello’s mood;

      Ulysses stormed, and his enchanted belt

      Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt

      Unbosom’d so’ and so eternal made,

      Such tender incense in their laurel shade,

      To all the regent sisters of the Nine

      As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

      Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;

      Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where.

      And may it taste to you like good old wine,

      Take you to real happiness and give

      Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

      When wedding fiddles are a-playing,

      Huzza for folly O!

      And when maidens go a-maying,

      Huzza for folly O!

      When a milk-pail is upset,

      Huzza for folly O!

      And the clothes left in the wet,

      Huzza for folly O!

      When the barrel’s set abroach,

      Huzza for folly O!

      When Kate Eyebrow keeps a coach,

      Huzza for folly O!

      When the pig is over-roasted,

      Huzza for folly O!

      And the cheese is over-toasted,

      Huzza for folly O!

      When Sir Snap is with his lawyer,

      Huzza for folly O!

      And Miss Chip has kiss’d the sawyer,

      Huzza for folly O!

      …

      Where be ye going, you Devon maid?

      And what have ye there in the basket?

      Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy,

      Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

      I love your meads, and I love your flowers,

      And I love your junkets’ mainly,

      But ‘hind the door I love kissing more,

      O look not so disdainly.

      I love your hills, and I love your dales,

      And I love your flocks a-bleating -

      But O, on the heather to lie together,

      With both our hearts a-beating!

      I’ll put your basket all safe in a nook,

      Your shawl I hang up on the willow,

      And we will sigh in the daisy’s eye

      And kiss on a grass green pillow.

      Hush, hush! tread softly! hush, hush my dear!

      All the house is asleep, but we know very well

      That the jealous, the jealous old baldpate may hear,

      Tho’ you’ve padded his nightcap – O sweet Isabel!

      Tho’ your feet are more light than a Fairy’s feet,

      Who dances on bubbles where brooklets meet. -

      Hush, hush! soft tiptoe! hush, hush my dear!

      For less than a nothing the jealous can hear.

      No leaf doth tremble, no ripple is there

      On the river, – all’s still, and the night’s sleepy eye

      Closes up, and forgets all its Lethean care,

      Charm’d to death by the drone of the humming Mayfly;

      And the moon, whether prudish or complaisant,

      Has fled to her