 | The magic fountain |  |
136
SONNET,
TO A LAMB.
Poor trembler! thou hast come, when the cold arch
Of Heaven is wild with rushing clouds, and when
Flowers that prepare to deck thy native glen,
Shrink in their foldings from the winds of March.
How bearest thou the thin blast? Hath thy breast
A hope that whispers of a brighter time,
When every storm shall vanish, and the clime
In the deep hush of Summer shall have rest?
Of Heaven is wild with rushing clouds, and when
Flowers that prepare to deck thy native glen,
Shrink in their foldings from the winds of March.
How bearest thou the thin blast? Hath thy breast
A hope that whispers of a brighter time,
When every storm shall vanish, and the clime
In the deep hush of Summer shall have rest?
Dream'st thou of flowery fields and sunny banks,
And spots of smoothest verdure, where, with thee,
A hundred rivals, racing forth in glee,
Shall shake the green-sward with their happy pranks?
Aye, hope and dream! for these may all be thine;
But me—my Spring is past, my Summer hath no shine!
And spots of smoothest verdure, where, with thee,
A hundred rivals, racing forth in glee,
Shall shake the green-sward with their happy pranks?
Aye, hope and dream! for these may all be thine;
But me—my Spring is past, my Summer hath no shine!
| The magic fountain | |