In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet,
What seek you in my green retreat?
I gather flowers to deck my hair,—
The village yonder claims the best,
For lad and lass are thronging there
To dance the sober sun to rest.
Hark! hark! the rebec calls,— Glycere
Again may foot it on the green;
Her rivalry I need not fear,
These flowers shall crown the Village Queen.
You long have known this tranquil ground?
It all seems strangely marred to me.
Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound
The brightest of yon company.
The flowers that should eclipse Glycere
Are hers, poor child,— her grave is here!