SUMMER ON THE GREAT AMERICAN DESERT.
Ye dreary plains, that round me lie,
So parch'd with summer's heat,
No more ye please my wand'ring eye,
Or woo my weary feet.
Why hath the spring your beauty borne
Into his hiding place,
And left the widow'd winds to mourn
The charms they would embrace?
Why should those flowers, whose honey'd breath
With incense filled the breeze,
Drooping and wither'd, lie in death,
And now no longer please?
That grassy carpet, green and wide,
Why turn'd to stubble now?
Save 'chance along some streamlet's side,
Where less'ning waters flow!
And why those gently murm'ring rills,
Whose soft melodious strains
Were wont to echo 'mong the hills,
No longer reach the plains?
The lark no longer meets the morn,
Nor linnet pours his throat,
Nor feather'd warbler hails the dawn
With his sweet, mellow note;
Nor even insect cheers the scene,
Where Solitude alone,
In wither'd garb, as Desert Queen,
Rears her eternal throne!
These thirsty plains, with open mouth,
Implore the gentle shower;
But vainly plead, while summer's drouth
In scorching heat doth pour!
Nor grateful shade, of spreading tree,
Invites my feet to rest;
Nor cooling stream, in melody,
Attempts my quicken'd zest.
So dismal all! why should I stay
And sicken by their view?
Thrice gladly will I turn away,
And bid these scenes adieu!
