 | The forest minstrel |  |
SUMMER, FAREWELL!
Sweet Summer! fare thee well!
I hear thy passing sigh
Sweep fitfully along the dell,
Where the last fainting blossoms lie.
The tulip's reign is o'er,
The rose has passed away,
The snowy lily blooms no more,
The honeysuckle owns decay.
I hear thy passing sigh
Sweep fitfully along the dell,
Where the last fainting blossoms lie.
The tulip's reign is o'er,
The rose has passed away,
The snowy lily blooms no more,
The honeysuckle owns decay.
Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
Thy long bright days are past;
The rays that on earth's bosom fell
Now all aslant the zone are cast.
The seraphs of the earth
Have ceased the hymning lay,
And from the bowers of their birth
Are flitting silently away.
Thy long bright days are past;
The rays that on earth's bosom fell
Now all aslant the zone are cast.
The seraphs of the earth
Have ceased the hymning lay,
And from the bowers of their birth
Are flitting silently away.
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Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
Thy bowers are growing drear,
While thick upon the fitful gale
Flutters the foliage rest and sere.
While, writhing in the blast,
The strong and stately trees
Bow meekly to the storm, and cast
Their glorious chaplets on the breeze.
Thy bowers are growing drear,
While thick upon the fitful gale
Flutters the foliage rest and sere.
While, writhing in the blast,
The strong and stately trees
Bow meekly to the storm, and cast
Their glorious chaplets on the breeze.
Sweet Summer, fare thee well!
By forest, stream, or grove,
Thy joyous notes no longer swell
To ecstacy and holy love.
Alas, the joyous time
Of flow'rs, and glittering wings!
Alas, the Summer's balmy prime,
And all her rich and glorious things!
By forest, stream, or grove,
Thy joyous notes no longer swell
To ecstacy and holy love.
Alas, the joyous time
Of flow'rs, and glittering wings!
Alas, the Summer's balmy prime,
And all her rich and glorious things!
Sweet Summer! fare thee well!
Winter will build thine urn,
And wildly shriek thy funeral knell,—
Yet thou wilt joyfully return.
I will not weep for thee,
Or my own summer fled;—
Thou wilt return triumphantly,
And I arise rejoicing from the dead
Winter will build thine urn,
And wildly shriek thy funeral knell,—
Yet thou wilt joyfully return.
I will not weep for thee,
Or my own summer fled;—
Thou wilt return triumphantly,
And I arise rejoicing from the dead
| The forest minstrel | |