Hail, happy days! by you o'erthrown
We see the altar, which 'mong flowers
May reared to Death: attendant lowers,
With palid face, vile Fever lone,
And with sad brilliancy it shone.
Both saw the sons, with anxious brow,
Of milder realms approaching nigh,
Beneath this all-consuming sky:
With their pale sceptres touched, they bow,
And in the fatal grave are now.
But their reign o'er, on outspread wing,
To purify the poison' d air,
The north winds cold and moisture bear;
Across our fields they sounding spring,
And rest from August's rigours bring.
O'er Europe's gloomy climates wide,
Now from the North fierce sweeps the blast;
Verdure and life from earth are past:
With snow man sees it whelm'd betide,
And in closed dwellings must abide.
There all is death and grief! but here,
All life and joy! see, Phoebus smile
More sooth through lucid clouds, the while
Our woods and plains new lustres cheer,
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JOSE MARIA HEREDIA.
