 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
INVOCATION TO SPRING.
As one but late in love
Longs for his mistress, so my soul for thee
Pines with impatience! Come, then, from above,
Bright Angel of the Sun! come down to me,
And clothe the bare boughs of the trees with buds,
And wake the song-birds in the solitudes!
Longs for his mistress, so my soul for thee
Pines with impatience! Come, then, from above,
Bright Angel of the Sun! come down to me,
And clothe the bare boughs of the trees with buds,
And wake the song-birds in the solitudes!
As the parched traveler, in
His hour of thirst, pants for the cooling streams,
So does my soul for thee! The earth, fair queen,
Longs for the healing of thy heavenly beams,
That Winter may be melted from her reign,
And streams, now frozen, loosed to flow again.
His hour of thirst, pants for the cooling streams,
So does my soul for thee! The earth, fair queen,
Longs for the healing of thy heavenly beams,
That Winter may be melted from her reign,
And streams, now frozen, loosed to flow again.
Come to the wintry groves,
And fringe the bare boughs with the green leaves bright;
And tune the voices of the turtle-doves
To coo thy welcome with divine delight—
Call back the swans that have been absent long,
And make the birds resume their last years' song.
And fringe the bare boughs with the green leaves bright;
And tune the voices of the turtle-doves
To coo thy welcome with divine delight—
Call back the swans that have been absent long,
And make the birds resume their last years' song.
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As Winter to the Earth—
Freezing the streams which fertilize her breast,
Muffling their music as they wanton forth,
So that their banks are left like one distrest,
Barren of verdure, cold as cold can be—
So is the frost of my despair to me!
Freezing the streams which fertilize her breast,
Muffling their music as they wanton forth,
So that their banks are left like one distrest,
Barren of verdure, cold as cold can be—
So is the frost of my despair to me!
O! raise up from the grave
Of Winter, flowers that have been nipt by frost!
And, from the seeds the winds have sown, repave
The world with those that seemed, but were not, lost!
Thou art their Saviour—they rely on thee—
But who shall ever bring my lost to me?
Of Winter, flowers that have been nipt by frost!
And, from the seeds the winds have sown, repave
The world with those that seemed, but were not, lost!
Thou art their Saviour—they rely on thee—
But who shall ever bring my lost to me?
A balm is in the air—
A vernal freshness in the odorous breeze;
A living greenness on the hills long bare;
As on the bare boughs of the ghostly trees,
Changing their aspect, as on cheeks once dead,
A soft, reviving hue steals, faintly red.
A vernal freshness in the odorous breeze;
A living greenness on the hills long bare;
As on the bare boughs of the ghostly trees,
Changing their aspect, as on cheeks once dead,
A soft, reviving hue steals, faintly red.
The warm breath of the South,
Laden with perfumes from the odorous flowers,
Like blessings whispered from some loved one's mouth,
In love, steals balmy over these bare bowers,
Whose boughs are just beginning to put forth
Young buds, to match the green down on the earth.
Laden with perfumes from the odorous flowers,
Like blessings whispered from some loved one's mouth,
In love, steals balmy over these bare bowers,
Whose boughs are just beginning to put forth
Young buds, to match the green down on the earth.
Thy smiles begin to swell
The young buds on the boughs—soon they will burst,
And open in full bloom, of “tender smell,”
And quench, with honey-dew, the young bee's thirst;
And lace, with tassels of green leaves, the limbs
Which shade the lake whereon the young duck swims.
The young buds on the boughs—soon they will burst,
And open in full bloom, of “tender smell,”
And quench, with honey-dew, the young bee's thirst;
And lace, with tassels of green leaves, the limbs
Which shade the lake whereon the young duck swims.
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The green blades of the grass
Lean over on the margin of the brook,
And on themselves, beneath, in its clear glass,
Shadowed at noontide, ever tireless look;
While their green banks above, whereon they grow,
Seem resting on their images below.
Lean over on the margin of the brook,
And on themselves, beneath, in its clear glass,
Shadowed at noontide, ever tireless look;
While their green banks above, whereon they grow,
Seem resting on their images below.
The golden humming-bird,
At intervals, among the blossoms flits,
Chirping, as soft its lulling wings are heard—
Swift-darting, glinting back the sun in fits—
Humming caresses to each flower it meets,
While rifling it of all its odorous sweets.
At intervals, among the blossoms flits,
Chirping, as soft its lulling wings are heard—
Swift-darting, glinting back the sun in fits—
Humming caresses to each flower it meets,
While rifling it of all its odorous sweets.
The crystal-shining pond
Is speckled with the sun-clouds in the sky,
Which, though above, seem in its depths beyond,
All images of those that float on high;
As if two skies, to make it blest, were given—
One in the lake, the other up in heaven.
Is speckled with the sun-clouds in the sky,
Which, though above, seem in its depths beyond,
All images of those that float on high;
As if two skies, to make it blest, were given—
One in the lake, the other up in heaven.
A golden tinge now lies
Spread on the surface of yon crystal lake
Placid as one in death; while all the skies,
Seen in its mirror which no breeze doth break,
Are glowing with the flush of day, which shines
More golden—orange now—as he declines.
Spread on the surface of yon crystal lake
Placid as one in death; while all the skies,
Seen in its mirror which no breeze doth break,
Are glowing with the flush of day, which shines
More golden—orange now—as he declines.
O! as from death they rise,
With all the freshness of their former bloom,
When summoned by our Maker to the skies,
So shall our bodies from the silent tomb—
Immortal—never more to die. Then, Spring,
I will of an immortal Summer sing!
With all the freshness of their former bloom,
When summoned by our Maker to the skies,
So shall our bodies from the silent tomb—
Immortal—never more to die. Then, Spring,
I will of an immortal Summer sing!
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |