George Pope Morris

Oh, Would That She Were Here!

Oh, would that she were here,
 These hills and dales among,
Where vocal groves are gayly mocked
 By Echo's airy tongue:
Where jocund nature smiles
 In all her boon attire,
And roams the deeply-tangled wilds
 Of hawthorn and sweet-brier.
Oh, would that she were here—
 The gentle maid I sing,
Whose voice is cheerful as the songs
 Of forest-birds in spring!

Oh, would that she were here,
 Where the free waters leap,
Shouting in sportive joyousness
 Adown the rocky steep:
Where zephyrs crisp and cool
 The fountains as they play,
With health upon their wings of light,
 And gladness on their way.
Oh, would that she were here,
 With these balm-breathing trees,
The sylvan daughters of the sun,
 The rain-cloud, and the breeze!

Oh, would that she were here,
 Where glide the rosy hours,
Murm'ring the drowsy hum of bees,
 And fragrant with the flowers:
Where Heaven's redeeming love
 Spans earth in Mercy's bow—
The promise of the world above
 Unto the world below.
Oh, would that she were here,
 Amid these shades serene—
Oh, for the spell of woman's love,
 To consecrate the scene!