28
POEMS.
Why know ye not yet, 'tis for you to be gay
When the world's tempests rise, when its joys pass away!
'Tis for you, in your path through its deserts, to find
Your clear stream within, in a right-thinking mind!
List to her, there is delight in the smile
So radiant now, so long yearned for erewhile!
When the hand you have stretched has uplifted Despair,
And o'er its dark mantle cast Hope's garment fair;
There is joy in remembrance of Gratitude's tear,
Of the sunlight you gave to the wilderness drear;
Is't for you then to sorrow, when Peace doth but rest
In slumber, awaiting the call to your breast?
Oh! scorn ye its blessing? deride ye its might
To give day to your souls when around ye is night?
List to her!—Summer is passing away,
To cast, o'er a far-distant realm, her bright sway.
(Already the first trace of Autumn is seen;
Ev'n now is his footstep more marked on the green.)
Yet leaves she with sorrow; fain, fain would she mark
The light she could kindle in each bosom dark;
She gladly would yield ye her last parting sigh,
Did ye watch her depart with Hope's glistening eye,
And would ye do this? Though she passeth away
In your Winter-chilled hearts, let the Summer's warmth stay;
When the world's tempests rise, when its joys pass away!
'Tis for you, in your path through its deserts, to find
Your clear stream within, in a right-thinking mind!
List to her, there is delight in the smile
So radiant now, so long yearned for erewhile!
When the hand you have stretched has uplifted Despair,
And o'er its dark mantle cast Hope's garment fair;
There is joy in remembrance of Gratitude's tear,
Of the sunlight you gave to the wilderness drear;
Is't for you then to sorrow, when Peace doth but rest
In slumber, awaiting the call to your breast?
Oh! scorn ye its blessing? deride ye its might
To give day to your souls when around ye is night?
List to her!—Summer is passing away,
To cast, o'er a far-distant realm, her bright sway.
(Already the first trace of Autumn is seen;
Ev'n now is his footstep more marked on the green.)
Yet leaves she with sorrow; fain, fain would she mark
The light she could kindle in each bosom dark;
She gladly would yield ye her last parting sigh,
Did ye watch her depart with Hope's glistening eye,
And would ye do this? Though she passeth away
In your Winter-chilled hearts, let the Summer's warmth stay;
