This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
90
doleful breezes.
Now the wind-woke numbers flow,
Fading plaintively and slow,
Into sounds like woe, oh! oh!

Louder strains the chords assume,
Sad as voices round a tomb,
Floats, alas! for earth's bright bloom.

Yesterday it seems to me,
When the rose adorned the tree,
And the green bough waved in glee.

All around—above—below—
Wore a freshness and a glow,
Seen no longer, woe, woe, woe.

We have swept the lonely bowers,
Sighing fanned the drooping flowers,
When their bright leaves fell in showers.

Moaning o'er the wreck we pass,
Leafless bough and withered grass,
All of beauty, now—alas!

Oh! ye winds, too sad your strain,
Moons but few shall shine and wane,
Till the earth's all joy again;

Till green-mantled spring appears,
With her flowers, her smiles, and tears,
Lovely as in by-gone years;