ROUMANIA.

USH thee, hush thee, little maiden,
Pink as any pink that blows.

- Mother singeth thee to slumber ;

She will wash thy face, my rose,

With the water that she bringeth

From the blue spring that upspringeth

Where the sweet pink blossom grows.

Then a ray will all men think thee,
Snatched from out the sun’s bright beam !
Hush thee, hush thee; grow, my dear one,

. Like a tree beside the stream.

As the turtle-dove be tender ;
Tears, your crystal whiteness lend her,
And your beauty, stars that gleam !

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