"O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, "There 's not a tree of the valley, Or a leaf I wis which the rain's soft kiss Freshens in yonder alley, Where the drops keep ever falling,-- "There 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, Or bird through the woodland calling, So glad again of the coming rain As I of these tears now falling,-- These happy tears down falling." [Decoration] [Decoration] GEORGE DARLEY. 1795-1846. _MAY DAY._ FROM "SYLVIA": _Act III. Scene ii_. O may, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. When lasses and their lovers meet Beneath the early village-thorn, And to the sound of tabor sweet Bid welcome to the Maying-morn! O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. When grey-beards and their gossips come With crutch in hand our sports to see, And both go tottering, tattling home, Topful of wine as well as glee! O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. But Youth was aye the time for bliss, So taste it, Shepherds! while ye may: For who can tell that joy like this Will come another holiday? O May, thou art a merry time, Sing hi! the hawthorn pink and pale! When hedge-pipes they begin to chime, And summer-flowers to sow the dale. _I'VE BEEN ROAMING._ FROM "LILIAN OF THE VALE." I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the meadow dew is sweet, And like a queen I 'm coming With its pearls upon my feet. I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! O'er red rose and lily fair, And like a sylph I 'm coming With their blossoms in my hair. I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Where the honeysuckle creeps, And like a bee I 'm coming With its kisses on my lips. I 've been roaming! I 've been roaming! Over hill and over plain, And like a bird I 'm coming To my bower back again! [Illustration: Full-page Plate] _SYLVIA'S SONG._ The streams that wind amid the hills And lost in pleasure slowly roam, While their deep joy the valley fills,-- Even these will leave their mountain home; So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee. The leaf forsakes the parent spray, The blossom quits the stem as fast; The rose-enamour'd bird will stray And leave his eglantine at last: So may it, Love! with others be, But I will never wend from thee. _SERENADE._ FROM "SYLVIA": _Act IV. Scene I_. Romanzo sings: Awake thee, my Lady-love! Wake thee, and rise! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes!