 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
52
THE TREE, TO THE WIND.
Forsake me not, oh wind—
Stay, stay, sweet voiced singer—
Wilt leave me now, when on my brow,
This noon-tide heat doth linger?
Wilt leave me now, when droopingly
I need thy cool embracing—
When each pulse doth grow, more faint and low,
Beneath the sun's hot gazing.
Nay—tarry yet awhile, sweet wind,
And while thou flittest round me,
Sing once again, that olden strain,
That like a spell enwound me,
At break of dawn.
Stay, stay, sweet voiced singer—
Wilt leave me now, when on my brow,
This noon-tide heat doth linger?
Wilt leave me now, when droopingly
I need thy cool embracing—
When each pulse doth grow, more faint and low,
Beneath the sun's hot gazing.
Nay—tarry yet awhile, sweet wind,
And while thou flittest round me,
Sing once again, that olden strain,
That like a spell enwound me,
At break of dawn.
53
The little maiden singeth oft,
In pacing through the meadow;
And ladies fair, with harpings rare,
Have sung beneath my shadow.
And ever, at the morning hour,
The merry lark above me,
And the throstle too, in the ancient yew,
Sing soft, as they did love me.
But tarry yet awhile, sweet wind,
Still wave thy wings about me,
And fear not thou—their songs, I trow,
Ne'er win such joy from out me,
As thine, sweet wind.
In pacing through the meadow;
And ladies fair, with harpings rare,
Have sung beneath my shadow.
And ever, at the morning hour,
The merry lark above me,
And the throstle too, in the ancient yew,
Sing soft, as they did love me.
But tarry yet awhile, sweet wind,
Still wave thy wings about me,
And fear not thou—their songs, I trow,
Ne'er win such joy from out me,
As thine, sweet wind.
Oh, sing that pleasant song once more,
That song of olden story;
Ere the foot of man, our realm o'er-ran,
And we still upheld our glory.
When the only voice that rose with thine
Was the stream's, its green banks laving,
And the ocean's roar as it lashed the shore,
And the mighty forest's waving.
Now one by one our race depart,
The ravaged earth grows hoary—
Then sing again that pleasant strain,
Bring back that vanished glory,
Oh, pitying wind.
That song of olden story;
Ere the foot of man, our realm o'er-ran,
And we still upheld our glory.
When the only voice that rose with thine
Was the stream's, its green banks laving,
54
And the mighty forest's waving.
Now one by one our race depart,
The ravaged earth grows hoary—
Then sing again that pleasant strain,
Bring back that vanished glory,
Oh, pitying wind.
| Beads from a Rosary | |