POEMS.
27
SUMMER'S LAST LAY.
The wild-bird hath told of the bright Summer's birth;
She hath come, bringing light to each creature of earth:
Her glance hath been seeking in loneliest bowers
Her long-hidden treasures, the Winter-bound flowers,
And her breath hath passed o'er them, renewing their bloom,
And raising them up from their withering tomb.
Children! Earth's children! she comes once again,
Searching round for content, and her search is in vain;
She hath sought but one heart free from anguish and care,
And she finds where dwelt sunshine now bideth despair.
Whence is your sorrow? The world is the same!
There is still hope's bright tide—still the pathway to Fame—
Still the beacon of Faith. Then why bendeth the heart?
Why, amid all its joys, let contentment depart?
Children! why know ye not yet that, alone,
The true heart hath gladness and peace of its own?
She hath come, bringing light to each creature of earth:
Her glance hath been seeking in loneliest bowers
Her long-hidden treasures, the Winter-bound flowers,
And her breath hath passed o'er them, renewing their bloom,
And raising them up from their withering tomb.
Children! Earth's children! she comes once again,
Searching round for content, and her search is in vain;
She hath sought but one heart free from anguish and care,
And she finds where dwelt sunshine now bideth despair.
Whence is your sorrow? The world is the same!
There is still hope's bright tide—still the pathway to Fame—
Still the beacon of Faith. Then why bendeth the heart?
Why, amid all its joys, let contentment depart?
Children! why know ye not yet that, alone,
The true heart hath gladness and peace of its own?
