The Gazelle.

Dost thou not hear the silver bell, Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing? 'Tis my lady's light gazelle; To me her love thoughts bringing,— All the while that silver bell Around his dark neck ringing. See, in his mouth he bears a wreath, My love hath kist in tying; Oh, what tender thoughts beneath Those silent flowers are lying,— Hid within the mystic wreath, My love hath kist in trying! Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, And joy to her, the fairest. Who thus hath breathed her soul to me. In every leaf thou bearest; Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, And joy to her, the fairest. Hail ye living, speaking flowers, That breathe of her who bound ye; Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers; 'Twas on her lips, she found ye;— Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers, 'Twas on her lips, she found ye;—