But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.