 | Poems |  |
192
THE SEASON COMES.
The season comes—that season fair,
When blossoms crown the silvery thorn;
When music streams along the air,
And sun-gifts on each breeze are borne!
When blossoms crown the silvery thorn;
When music streams along the air,
And sun-gifts on each breeze are borne!
The stars shine through serenest skies,
The heavens drop precious tears;
The fair trees wear a thousand dyes,—
'Tis May! blest May! appears.
The heavens drop precious tears;
The fair trees wear a thousand dyes,—
'Tis May! blest May! appears.
Forget thy sorrows, child of earth—
Behold the scene around!
Observe the fearless buds put forth,
And beautify the ground!
Behold the scene around!
Observe the fearless buds put forth,
And beautify the ground!
193
Light as the spray that leaves the sea,
The jasmine's wreaths of stars are twining,
And gossamer on yon dark tree,
Like fairy-webs, is clearly shining.
The jasmine's wreaths of stars are twining,
And gossamer on yon dark tree,
Like fairy-webs, is clearly shining.
I sat within the bower I love,
Where waveless waters glide along,
And listened to the murmuring dove,
And to the blackbird's blither song.
Where waveless waters glide along,
And listened to the murmuring dove,
And to the blackbird's blither song.
My bower is sweet! my bower is fair!
Far from the world's tempestuous sea;
'Tis there I breathe the freshest air,
And rest beneath the greenest tree.
Far from the world's tempestuous sea;
'Tis there I breathe the freshest air,
And rest beneath the greenest tree.
O, Solitude! to me how dear!
Thou—thou canst soothe my weary sight—
Canst hush the sigh—canst check the tear,
With dreamings of divine delight.
Thou—thou canst soothe my weary sight—
Canst hush the sigh—canst check the tear,
With dreamings of divine delight.
194
Ye halls, where festal pomps abound—
Where sounds the harp's melodious swell—
Where pleasure waves her wand around,
I cannot love ye half so well!
Where sounds the harp's melodious swell—
Where pleasure waves her wand around,
I cannot love ye half so well!
And if, while float the harp's rich sighs,
And shines the lamped and tapestried wall,
Memories of green sweet fields arise,
I cannot love ye then at all.
And shines the lamped and tapestried wall,
Memories of green sweet fields arise,
I cannot love ye then at all.
Or should one thought of my calm bower,
Embosomed in the tranquil glen,
Strike my wild heart in such an hour,
I hate—O, how I hate ye then!
Embosomed in the tranquil glen,
Strike my wild heart in such an hour,
I hate—O, how I hate ye then!
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