 | Naked Genius |  |
LANGUISHING FOR SOME ONE.
Oh! when will the winter be over,
The cold chilly winds cease to blow;
The fall of my soul to recover,
Benumbed in these valleys of snow.
The cold chilly winds cease to blow;
The fall of my soul to recover,
Benumbed in these valleys of snow.
139
My vast Northern distance doth grieve thee,
The sun from the South shines in vain;
And yields not one beam to relieve me,
And thus I am left to complain.
The sun from the South shines in vain;
And yields not one beam to relieve me,
And thus I am left to complain.
No prospect of sweet vegitation,
Nor news of the blossoms of May:
An object of sad desolation,
Alone in these valleys I stray.
Nor news of the blossoms of May:
An object of sad desolation,
Alone in these valleys I stray.
There's nothing in nature to cheer me,
Confined in this hibernal chain;
I cry, but no ear seems to hear me,
An still I am left to complain.
Confined in this hibernal chain;
I cry, but no ear seems to hear me,
An still I am left to complain.
I strive, but I cannot be jolly,
I try, but I cannot be brave;
Then sink into dull melancholy,
With nothing in front but the grave.
I try, but I cannot be brave;
Then sink into dull melancholy,
With nothing in front but the grave.
Death seems resolving to take me,
Which threatens me often by pain;
And whispers that life will forsake me,
Thus how can I fail to complain.
Which threatens me often by pain;
And whispers that life will forsake me,
Thus how can I fail to complain.
Oh mercy! how long shall I shiver,
And shake in this system of clay;
When will thou my spirit deliver,
And chase the cold winter away.
And shake in this system of clay;
When will thou my spirit deliver,
And chase the cold winter away.
When trees are in full bloom of glory,
The birds strike a wonderful strain;
The dove tells her sweet lovely story,
And bids me forbear to complain.
The birds strike a wonderful strain;
The dove tells her sweet lovely story,
And bids me forbear to complain.
140
Oh! tell me that spring is returning,
And winter will shortly be o'er;
For then like the lark of the morning,
My gratified spirit will soar.
And winter will shortly be o'er;
For then like the lark of the morning,
My gratified spirit will soar.
Whence once the cold breeze has deserted,
The soul like the unruffled main,
Is changed or completely converted,
And ceases at once to complain.
The soul like the unruffled main,
Is changed or completely converted,
And ceases at once to complain.
| Naked Genius | |