LXI.
ROUNDELAY.
I
When life was fresh and fearless
Spring was green and golden:
And her lusty heart
Did our hearts embolden.
From the happy pipings
Of her daylong quire
We our music took:
As the song went high,
Still our hearts beat higher.
II
Now tho' Spring be golden,
'Tis the tint of dying:
Through her Autumn locks
Winter gales are sighing.
'Tis her budding childhood:
Yet her death is here:
And the ringing music
Of her voiceful quire
Thrills above her bier.
III
As of old, our life
Still is free and fearless—
'Tis the hush of death,
Calm, and chill, and cheerless.
O'er our blighted spring-time
Winter's shade is glooming:
And the inner music
Of the echoing heart
Mocks its former blooming.
