30
poems.
So gay, so bright, where'er ye stray, the scenes.
Ah! this is happiness man may not taste:
He soon must see this verdure all laid waste:
Farewell to thee! sing on, sweet warblers, sing;
We soon must part until the budding spring.
Oh, beauteous morn! delightful hour! how sweet,
In this soft silence, in this calm retreat,
To view the glowing landscape at my feet.
The sunshine glitters in each waving tree;
Like gems the dew-drops all appear to me;
The cloudless sky is deeply blushing still,
And, rolling slow, the mist ascends the hill.
Glad sounds are heard, and silence now no more
Makes sweet the music on the rocky shore;
The rapids flow swift on their foaming way;
We hear them not, for now 'tis perfect day.
The bleating flocks are playing in the fields,
And bounteous nature her rich produce yields
'Neath the deep scythe, by man's industrious aid;
And through the meadow trips the singing maid
With health and beauty in her form; and round
The open doors, and on the fruit-strewn ground,
The laughing children play. The shell doth sound
And now they haste away!
Ah! this is happiness man may not taste:
He soon must see this verdure all laid waste:
Farewell to thee! sing on, sweet warblers, sing;
We soon must part until the budding spring.
Oh, beauteous morn! delightful hour! how sweet,
In this soft silence, in this calm retreat,
To view the glowing landscape at my feet.
The sunshine glitters in each waving tree;
Like gems the dew-drops all appear to me;
The cloudless sky is deeply blushing still,
And, rolling slow, the mist ascends the hill.
Glad sounds are heard, and silence now no more
Makes sweet the music on the rocky shore;
The rapids flow swift on their foaming way;
We hear them not, for now 'tis perfect day.
The bleating flocks are playing in the fields,
And bounteous nature her rich produce yields
'Neath the deep scythe, by man's industrious aid;
And through the meadow trips the singing maid
With health and beauty in her form; and round
The open doors, and on the fruit-strewn ground,
The laughing children play. The shell doth sound
And now they haste away!
The lovely morn
Is past, The noontide sun refolds the golden corn
Is past, The noontide sun refolds the golden corn
