There is not in the wild world a valley so sweet,
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As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
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Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
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Ere, the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart,
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Ere, the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
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Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene,
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Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
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"Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or rill,
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Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.
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Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.
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"Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
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Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear;
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And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
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When we see them reflected from looks that we love,
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When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
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Sweet vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest,
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In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
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Where the storm that we feel in this cold world should cease,
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And our hearts like thy waters, be mingled in peace,
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And our hearts like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
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The Metting of the Waters
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| John McDermott |
