 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
289
LAMENT FOR SUMMER.
A softened light falls on the hill's misty head,
And voices of mourning cry “Summer is dead!”
In the depths of the wood there are signs of decay,
And the green of the meadow is fading away;
Round pools that the rain-storm hath left in the street,
A golden-winged bevy, the butterflies meet—
A delicate blue is erased from the sky,
And the beard of the thistle is sailing on high.
And voices of mourning cry “Summer is dead!”
In the depths of the wood there are signs of decay,
And the green of the meadow is fading away;
Round pools that the rain-storm hath left in the street,
A golden-winged bevy, the butterflies meet—
A delicate blue is erased from the sky,
And the beard of the thistle is sailing on high.
Glad mother of beauty, lost Summer, wert thou—
A rosy tiara encircled thy brow;
Dew, fresh from the starr'd urn of night, was thy wine,
What face in the lakelet was glassed fair as thine?
Festooned by the ivy—with lattice supplied—
Thy hall in the green wood was airy and wide,
Bird, breeze, leaf and streamlet discoursed there in glee,
And the Genius of flowers spread a carpet for thee.
A rosy tiara encircled thy brow;
Dew, fresh from the starr'd urn of night, was thy wine,
What face in the lakelet was glassed fair as thine?
Festooned by the ivy—with lattice supplied—
Thy hall in the green wood was airy and wide,
Bird, breeze, leaf and streamlet discoursed there in glee,
And the Genius of flowers spread a carpet for thee.
The nymph that we worshipped in mould hath been laid,
There is gloom in the fields, on the sun's disc a shade—
The cricket, in sable habiliments dress'd,
Is piping a dirge near the place of her rest;
Low winds murmur prayer for the sleeper's repose,
The locust sad note on his clarion blows,
And hollow-voiced spirits that whisper of dole,
Throng nightly around her funereal knoll.
There is gloom in the fields, on the sun's disc a shade—
The cricket, in sable habiliments dress'd,
Is piping a dirge near the place of her rest;
Low winds murmur prayer for the sleeper's repose,
The locust sad note on his clarion blows,
And hollow-voiced spirits that whisper of dole,
Throng nightly around her funereal knoll.
Death came to thee, Summer, in loveliest guise,
All bright was thy smile when he curtained thine eyes—
Though deep in thy bosom was planted his dart,
There was bloom on thy cheek—there was warmth at thy heart,
As gentle Autumnus bent over thy bier
He whispered “Awake thee—arise, sister dear!”
So life-like were tints that each feature retained,
Though the wine of thy fleeting existence was drained.
All bright was thy smile when he curtained thine eyes—
Though deep in thy bosom was planted his dart,
There was bloom on thy cheek—there was warmth at thy heart,
290
He whispered “Awake thee—arise, sister dear!”
So life-like were tints that each feature retained,
Though the wine of thy fleeting existence was drained.
Where bruised by the wheel and armed hoof of the steed,
Blooms on by the wayside the lowly may-weed;
Yon dove-flock is gleaning each kernel of grain
That falls from the creaking and o'erloaded wain:
In glossy black coat sits the clamorous crow
On the top of tall oak, and he prophesies woe
While the first withered leaves of the forest are shed
On the newly-made grave of the loved and the dead.
Blooms on by the wayside the lowly may-weed;
Yon dove-flock is gleaning each kernel of grain
That falls from the creaking and o'erloaded wain:
In glossy black coat sits the clamorous crow
On the top of tall oak, and he prophesies woe
While the first withered leaves of the forest are shed
On the newly-made grave of the loved and the dead.
When coral-lipped Summer breathed mournful adieu,
A landscape enriched by her smile was in view—
The cheek of the cloud was with violet tinged,
And an edging of azure the forest-top fringed;
Light airs passing over the dewy buckwheat,
Perfume bore abroad that was grateful and sweet,
And bees in the blossoms that whitened the field
Found nectar more pure than Hymettus can yield.
A landscape enriched by her smile was in view—
The cheek of the cloud was with violet tinged,
And an edging of azure the forest-top fringed;
Light airs passing over the dewy buckwheat,
Perfume bore abroad that was grateful and sweet,
And bees in the blossoms that whitened the field
Found nectar more pure than Hymettus can yield.
Mourn, mourn for the peerless and jovial-hearted
To the shadowy climate of silence departed!
Ere south had the passenger-pigeon retired,
Or gone was the robin, young Summer expired;
Dew-webbed is the stubble and pasture at morn,
And rubies are set in the crown of the thorn—
The boughs of the orchard with fruit are depress'd,
But cold lies the clod on the Slumberer's breast!
To the shadowy climate of silence departed!
Ere south had the passenger-pigeon retired,
Or gone was the robin, young Summer expired;
Dew-webbed is the stubble and pasture at morn,
And rubies are set in the crown of the thorn—
The boughs of the orchard with fruit are depress'd,
But cold lies the clod on the Slumberer's breast!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |