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In never-changing verdure gay,
And sparkling in the beam of May!
Now chill November's low'ring gloom,
Seal'd nature in her annual tomb;
And darksome fog, and misty rain,
Hid hill and valley, wood and plain.
Scarcely we saw the waving Tyne,
Through his rich vales in beauty twine;
Nought met our eyes but giant trees,
Yielding their last leaves to the breeze;
Save, where the sky's grey tinge was broke
By sullen clouds of blacker smoke;
And dusky children, by the cot,
Spoke the dark miner's wretched lot;
Bare was the wood, and damp the ground,
And all was sad,—for nature frown'd.
And sparkling in the beam of May!
Now chill November's low'ring gloom,
Seal'd nature in her annual tomb;
And darksome fog, and misty rain,
Hid hill and valley, wood and plain.
Scarcely we saw the waving Tyne,
Through his rich vales in beauty twine;
Nought met our eyes but giant trees,
Yielding their last leaves to the breeze;
Save, where the sky's grey tinge was broke
By sullen clouds of blacker smoke;
And dusky children, by the cot,
Spoke the dark miner's wretched lot;
Bare was the wood, and damp the ground,
And all was sad,—for nature frown'd.
Have ye not often dreamt, my fair,
Of bliss that mortals may not share?
Of bliss that mortals may not share?
