 | English melodies |  |
86
MORN ON THE MEADOW.
Morn on the meadow, and blossom and spray
Glitter like gems in the dewlight of day,
Grasses of emerald, tufted with gold;
Lilies, like Love, when too bashful and cold;
Wings of the wild bee, disturbing the nest
Of the lark, that still broods o'er the song in its breast;
Flow'ret and butterfly wake as new born,
For 'tis morn on the meadow, the dew-lighted Morn.
Glitter like gems in the dewlight of day,
Grasses of emerald, tufted with gold;
Lilies, like Love, when too bashful and cold;
Wings of the wild bee, disturbing the nest
Of the lark, that still broods o'er the song in its breast;
Flow'ret and butterfly wake as new born,
For 'tis morn on the meadow, the dew-lighted Morn.
Night on the fields and the Mower hath been,
And the gems of the meadow no longer are seen;
The bright and the beautiful, faded and dead,
Lie cold as the tears which the moonlight hath shed:
The lark, like a spirit, still wanders the air,
And all nature is sad with her song of despair,
All perish'd the blossom, the golden and green;
For 'tis Night on the field—and the Mower hath been.
And the gems of the meadow no longer are seen;
The bright and the beautiful, faded and dead,
Lie cold as the tears which the moonlight hath shed:
The lark, like a spirit, still wanders the air,
And all nature is sad with her song of despair,
All perish'd the blossom, the golden and green;
For 'tis Night on the field—and the Mower hath been.
87
Alas! for the Beautiful! Time hastens on,
We look where they bloom'd—but the lovely are gone,
The Morn of existence hath fled like the wind—
And the Evening comes on—and leaves sorrow behind.
The years of our being are lost like a breath,
For the Mower hath been, and that Mower is Death!
But a Morn yet shall rise, and the dead be reborn,
And a beauty eternal encircle that Morn.
We look where they bloom'd—but the lovely are gone,
The Morn of existence hath fled like the wind—
And the Evening comes on—and leaves sorrow behind.
The years of our being are lost like a breath,
For the Mower hath been, and that Mower is Death!
But a Morn yet shall rise, and the dead be reborn,
And a beauty eternal encircle that Morn.
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