27
THE MAGDALEN.
The plaining murmur of the midnight wind,
Like mournful music is upon the air:
So sad, so sweet, that the eyes fill with tears,
Without a cause—ah! no, the heart is heaped
So full with perished pleasures, vain regrets,
That nature cannot sound one grieving note
Upon her forest lyre, but still it finds
Mute echo in the sorrowing human heart.
Now the wind wails among the yellow leaves,
About to fall, over the faded flowers,
Over all summer's lovely memories,
About to die; the year has yet in store
A few dim hours, but they are dark and cold:
Sunshine, green leaves, glad flowers, they all are gone;
And it has only left the worn-out soil,
The leafless bough, and the o'er-clouded sky.
And shall humanity not sympathize
With desolation which is like its own?
So do our early dreams fade unfulfilled;
So does our hope turn into memory
