THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
SUMMER is gone on swallows' wings,
And earth has buried all her flowers:
No more the lark, the linnet sings,
But silence sits in faded bowers.
There is a shadow on the plain
Of Winter ere he comes again,-
There is in woods a solemn sound
Of hollow warnings whispered round,
As Echo in her deep recess
For once had turned a prophetess.
Shuddering Autumn stops to list,
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,
With clouded face, and hazel eyes
That quench themselves, and hide in mist.
Yes, Summer 's gone like pageant bright; Its glorious days of golden light
the mimic suns that quiver, Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river.
Gone the sweetly-scented breeze
That spoke in music to the trees;
Gone for damp and chilly breath,
As if fresh blown o'er marble seas,
Or newly from the lungs of Death.-
Gone its virgin roses' blushes,
Warm as when Aurora rushes
Freshly from the god's embrace,
With all her shame upon her face.
Old Time hath laid them in the mould;
Sure he is blind as well as old,
Whose hand relentless never spares
Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs!
Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now
From where so blushing-blest they tarried
Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough,
Gone; for Day and Night are married.
All the light of love is fled: -
Alas! that negro breasts should hide
The lips that were so rosy red,
At morning and at even-tide!
Delightful Summer! then adieu
Till thou shalt visit us anew:
But who without regretful sigh
Can say adieu, and see thee fly?
Not he that e'er hath felt thy power,
His joy expanding like a flower
That cometh after rain and snow,
Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow:
Not he that fled from Babel-strife
To the green Sabbath-land of life,
To dodge dull Care 'mid clustered trees,
And cool his forehead in the breeze,-
Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance,
Shook from its wings a weight of grief,
And perched upon an aspen-leaf,
For every breath to make it dance.
Farewell!on wings of sombre stain, That blacken in the last blue skies, Thou fly'st; but thou wilt come again On the gay wings of butterflies. Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds;
Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers,
And April smiles to sunny hours.
Bright days shall be, and gentle nights
Full of soft breath and echo-lights,
As if the god of sun-time kept
His eyes half-open while he slept.
Roses shall be where roses were,
Not shadows, but reality;
As if they never perished there,
But slept in immortality :
Nature shall thrill with new delight,
And Time's relumined river run
Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright As if its source were in the sun!
But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness, warms His aged heart? no happy wiles To cheat the hoary one to smiles? Onward he comes the cruel North Pours his furious whirlwind forth Before him and we breathe the breath Of famished bears that howl to death. Onward he comes from rocks that blanch O'er solid streams that never flow; His tears all ice, his locks all snow, Just crept from some huge avalanche – A thing half-breathing and half-warın, As if one spark began to glow Within some statue's marble form, Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm. O! will not Mirth's light arrows fail To pierce that frozen coat of mail?
O will not joy but strive in vain
To light up those glazed eyes again?
No! take him in, and blaze the oak,
And pour the wine, and warm the ale;
His sides shall shake to many a joke,
His tongue shall thaw in many a tale,
His
eyes grow bright, his heart be gay,
And even his palsy charmed away.
What heeds he then the boisterous shout
Of angry winds that scold without,
Like shrewish wives at tavern door?
What heeds he then the wild uproar
Of billows bursting on the shore?
In dashing waves, in howling breeze,
There is a music that can charm him;
When safe, and sheltered, and at ease,
He hears the storm that cannot harm him.
But hark! those shouts! that sudden din
Of little hearts that laugh within.
O! take him where the youngsters play,
And he will grow as young as they!
They come they come! each blue-eyed Sport,
The Twelfth-Night King and all his court-
'Tis Mirth fresh crowned with mistletoe !
Music with her merry fiddles,
Joy "on light fantastic toe,"
Wit with all his jests and riddles,
Singing and dancing as they go.
And Love, young Love, among the rest,
A welcome nor unbidden guest.
But still for Summer dost thou grieve?
Then read our poets- they shall weave
A garden of green fancies still,
Where thy wish may rove at will.
They have kept for after treats
The essences of summer sweets,
And echoes of its songs that wind
In endless music through the mind:
They have stamped in visible traces
The "thoughts that breathe," in words that shine-
The flights of soul in sunny places -
To greet and company with thine.
These shall wing thee on to flowers
The past or future that shall seem
All the brighter in thy dream
For blowing in such desert hours.
The summer never shines so bright
As thought of in a winter's night;
And the sweetest, loveliest rose
Is in the bud before it blows;
The dear one of the lover's heart
Is painted to his longing eyes,
In charms she ne'er can realize
But when she turns again to part.
Dream thou then, and bind thy brow
With wreath of fancy roses now,
And drink of summer in the cup
Where the Muse hath mixed it up;
The "dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth,"
With the warm nectar of the earth:
Drink! 't will glow in every vein,
And thou shalt dream the winter through:
Then waken to the sun again,
And find thy summer vision true!
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