When April spreads her mantle green
Across the pasture-lands of snow,
And Spring's first scarlet breasts are seen
Where treetops rustle to and fro;
Then come fair fragrant dreams as though
Our lightest fancy to entrance
And paint us what we fain would know
Adown the lanes of Old Romance.
Anon, we see the golden sheen
Of burnished mail the sunbeams throw,
Flashing the poplars tall between,
As knights ride by to meet the foe;
Or, mayhap, shepherd lads who blow
On slender pipes, a pastoral dance —
Ah, strong were they in weal and woe
Adown the lanes of Old Romance!
But now the vast years intervene,
The fountain long has ceased its flow,
And silence rules the lone demesne
That once held such a goodly show;
Yet time, at least, does this bestow
Nor leave the best to fleeting chance —
They live again in fancy's glow
Adown the lanes of Old Romance.