Lily of the Valley
Sweet the echo ringeth,
Lily of the Vale,
As it slowly springeth
In the woody dale,
Fairer than a princess in a maiden's tale.
Wave the trees above it,
Like the sound of strings;
All the breezes love it,
Where the throstle sings,
Kissing off it's odours with their
silver wings.
Where the wood-dove hummeth
By the waterfall,
There the Lily cometh,
Like a seraph's call,
With a tale for summer and a love for all.
Blooming by the angle
Where the waters run,
And the stonecrops spangle
Many a crevice dun,
How it loves the shadow as it loves
the sun!
Evermore it lendeth
Beauty to the scene,
Whilst to earth it bendeth
In its bower of green,
Teaching man how fatal on himself
to lean.
Sorrow loves the Lily,
Pensiveness and woe,
In the covert stilly,
Where the runnels flow,
And the twilight glimmers through
the woodbine low.
In the morn's full glory,
In the evening's calm,
It has still the story
Of a higher balm,
Of a sweeter fragrance, of a
loftier psalm.
Sweetest thoughts are blending
With it's snowy bells,
Bright with blossoms bending
Over Eden wells,
When the angels mingle in the
golden dells.
One thought, like the morning,
Makes all others pale;
Bright with truth's adorning,
Which we joy to hail;
CHRIST is called for ever Lily of the
Vale.
