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And if the mournful heart still feels
That joyful voice but mocks its gloom,
Yet hope amid dejection steals,
And whispers of bright hours to come.
That joyful voice but mocks its gloom,
Yet hope amid dejection steals,
And whispers of bright hours to come.
Why is it that such cheering power,
Such gladness, floats upon thy smile?
It is thou art the childhood hour,
The youth that Nature lives awhile;
And though, like man's bright vernal morn,
Too soon thy lustre fades away,
Yet still, like his, can ne'er return
The freshness of thine early day.
Such gladness, floats upon thy smile?
It is thou art the childhood hour,
The youth that Nature lives awhile;
And though, like man's bright vernal morn,
Too soon thy lustre fades away,
Yet still, like his, can ne'er return
The freshness of thine early day.
No; Summer suns more bright may shine
O'er lovelier hues, when thine are sere,
And Autumn's thousand tints may twine
With gorgeous grief the dying year;
Jut never can their fairest hours
Revive the feelings thou canst raise,
The freshness of thy simple flowers,
The magic of thy changeful days.
O'er lovelier hues, when thine are sere,
And Autumn's thousand tints may twine
With gorgeous grief the dying year;
Jut never can their fairest hours
Revive the feelings thou canst raise,
The freshness of thy simple flowers,
The magic of thy changeful days.
And who can gaze on this fair earth,
All rife with sights and sounds of Spring,
The bursting leaves, the flowers' new birth,
The joyous "birds upon the wing,"
Nor feel that these fair things were made
To cheer man's pilgrimage below,—
Gently to soothe life's hours of shade,
And soften its meridian glow?
All rife with sights and sounds of Spring,
The bursting leaves, the flowers' new birth,
The joyous "birds upon the wing,"
Nor feel that these fair things were made
To cheer man's pilgrimage below,—
Gently to soothe life's hours of shade,
And soften its meridian glow?
