82
miscellaneous poems.
'Tis Winter! dread Winter!—I know him now—
The snow-flakes are thick on his aching brow;
He exults o'er the autumn, whose early death
Was caused by the cold from his icy breath.
Nay! ring not thy sleigh-bells—I will not go!
Your sled may glide on,—I hate the snow.
You have swept all my trees of their glorious hues,
You have frozen the twilight's fragrant dews,
The locust and humming bird both are away—
The land is desolate I—why should I stay?
Was it an echo, borne on the breeze,
As it murmured in sadness, thro' leafless trees?
Was it that voiceless tone that said,
Stay I—And I answered, with whom?—the dead?
The dead! their remembrance and grief may die,
As the flowers of the Summer forgotten lie;
But the buried thoughts we had deemed at rest,
Burst from their secret tomb—the breast;—
And they whisper, (those spirits of happier hours,)
Heed not the faded leaves and flowers!
Come with us to the lonely wood,
Nourish us fondly in solitude;
The snow-flakes are thick on his aching brow;
He exults o'er the autumn, whose early death
Was caused by the cold from his icy breath.
Nay! ring not thy sleigh-bells—I will not go!
Your sled may glide on,—I hate the snow.
You have swept all my trees of their glorious hues,
You have frozen the twilight's fragrant dews,
The locust and humming bird both are away—
The land is desolate I—why should I stay?
Was it an echo, borne on the breeze,
As it murmured in sadness, thro' leafless trees?
Was it that voiceless tone that said,
Stay I—And I answered, with whom?—the dead?
The dead! their remembrance and grief may die,
As the flowers of the Summer forgotten lie;
But the buried thoughts we had deemed at rest,
Burst from their secret tomb—the breast;—
And they whisper, (those spirits of happier hours,)
Heed not the faded leaves and flowers!
Come with us to the lonely wood,
Nourish us fondly in solitude;
