Tell him the balmy breath of spring Hath waked from winter sleep The hills and vales;--that on the wing In airy circles sweep The blithesome birds from tree to tree, Sweet minstrels of the grove! Oh! bid him feel their ecstasy, But tell not that I love! Tell him the primrose now is seen On every bank and brae; That all the fields look gaily green Beneath the cloudless day. Hark! the brooks murmur as they fall, Soft as the turtle-dove! Oh! how these scenes the past recall! But tell not that I love!…
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