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Gone its virgin roses' blushes,
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 pow'r, His joy expanding like a flow'r 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 cluster'd trees, And cool his forehead in the breeze, Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, Shook from its wings a weight of grief, And perch'd 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 perish'd there, But slept in immortality : Nature shall thrill with new delight, And Time's relumin'd 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 famish'd 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,
No! take him in, and blaze the oak,
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-ey'd Sport, The Twelfth Night King and all his court
'Tis Mirth fresh crown'd with misletoe !
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 stamp'd in visible traces The “ thoughts that breathe,” in words that shineThe flights of soul in sunny placesTo greet and company with thine. These shall wing thee on to flow'rs 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 realizeBut when she turns again to part. Dream thou then, and bind thy brow
With wreath of fancy roses now,