Poems (Douglas)/The Seasons

by Sarah Parker Douglas

THE SEASONS.

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No. I. Spring: Childhood.

The verdure of the woodland scene Spring's softest pencil tinged,
A limpid stream with silvery surf the light green meadows fringed,
The song of birds and breath of flowers made glad the balmy air,
Whilst childhood's laughter, light and loud, told human buds were there.
There on that gently sloping hill where sunbeams gild the sward,
Here glittering white with daisy gems, and there all primrose starred,
The bounding foot of childhood sinks, and voice of infant glee
Commingles gladly with the song of stream, and bird, and bee.

Hard by yon home whose snowy walls embowering trees surround,
And hedge-rows of the flowery thorn enclose fair garden ground,
The hamlet's happy little ones at guileless sports behold,
As light winds wanton with their locks of dark, and fair, and gold.
Near yonder leafy copse appear two wanderers from the rest,
Who hand in hand have scampered off, of fairest flowers in quest;
The foliage waves—within the dell the tiny wanderers pass,
Where floral gems of many a hue peep from the fresh green grass.

The primrose, matron-like, appears, midst fair unfolding brood,
Up-gazing from their soft green leaves to see whose feet intrude
And smiling on the raptured pair, who gaze delighted round,
And clap their little hands in glee o'er each sweet treasure found.
The violet with its fragrant breath, and robe intensely blue,
Gleams brilliantly from every shade, still pearled with glittering dew.
But with their treasure of wild gems, an aggregated store,
We see them from the dell emerge in the broad beams once more;

Whilst genuine bursts of infant praise to perfume and to hue,
Gush ever as the tiny hand holds some bright flower to view.
They pause—they leap—they run—they laugh—so strangely wild their mirth;
They hear the lark, and, rapture plumed, might with him spring from earth;
They feel the pulse which nature stirs, though all ununderstood,
Unworded praise their bosoms swell to nature's Great and Good,
Home with their beauty and perfume across the meads they skip,
A mother meets them at the door, her kiss is on each lip;

Brother and sister upward turn each little joylit face,
And share without one jealous pang that mother's fond embrace.
Oh! infancy, how clear thy streams, how dewy fresh thy flowers,
How thornless to each careless tread thy gladsome, guileless bowers!
What pure affections, perfect 'trust, the heart's soft tendrils move,
With ivy clasp to circle all in that bright sphere of love!
But Time, e'en on that sinless ground, permits of no delay,
But leads the guileless sporters there to youth's green vale away.
 

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No. II. Summer: Youth,

Young spring time with her smiles and tears, and trembling beams, is gone,
And summer, with rose garlands crowned, and glorious vesture on,
Bathes in a flood of fostering light the fair and fruitful earth,
Till deep within the forest's heart the glittering rays make mirth.
Still on the hill's green slope is seen the cottage midst the trees,
On either hand the ripening grain stirs lightly to the breeze;
The pasture ground with closer bloom is gaily dotted o'er,
By which glides on the murmuring stream, as sparkling as of yore,
The saplings that the wavering breath of early springtime swayed,
Now, with luxuriant foliage crowned, have formed a generous shade,
Through which the sun on youthful forms a shower of spangles throws,
Now trembling o'er the clustering locks, now o'er the cheek's soft rose.
Two forms conspicuous 'mongst the group for youthful charms we hail,
The joyous seekers of wild flowers, in childhood's dewy vale;
The boy of then, a youth behold of fair proportions now,
The sunny light of joy and hope illumining his brow.
No hand of care hath seemed to pass its radiant surface o'er,
Nor shadow save a graceful line of thought impressed by lore;
His eye is bright and full of fire, dark locks his head adorn,
The beauty's his, but more mature, he wore in life's young morn.
From manhood's threshhold, where he stands, the future meets his gaze,
One fair interminable plain, wrapped in a golden haze,
On which he longs to tread; and e'en, with tardiness of flight,
Reproaches time for tarrying, without that vale of light,
Where he believes love, joy, and truth, in full perfection beam—
Dream on fair youth in vision blest, it is thy time to dream
The girl a bashful maiden grown, her happy school days o'er,
Displays the soft and snowy brow, and golden locks of yore.
All love, all joy, she wavers twixt the woman and the girl,
Whilst blushes radiant as her hopes flit o'er her cheek of pearl.
To-morrow and the orange bloom shall wreathe her graceful head,
To-morrow sees her as a bride before the altar led.
What pare affections has she given to him, her partner, guide,
How confidently shall she tread life's journey by his side!
She gazes on the future too, and, through the brilliant haze,
Sees but a path of thornless flowers, and long, long golden days.
Amidst a gay and youthful band, now see our friends of yore
Leave the broad shadow of green boughs, and gain the cottage door,
Whence issue sounds of happiness in silvery laughter light,
Oh guileless inexperienced youth thy season's glad and bright;
But he of hourglass, and of scythe, and never-resting wing,
Leads on from youth, and summer bowers, quick as from childhood's spring.

 
No. III. Autumn.

No more is summer's pompous robes before our vision spread,
Her warm and fragrant breath is gone, her beauteous garlands dead,
The luxury of living green she wove the landscape o'er
Has vanished, and the sear leaves fall each blighting breeze before,
And o'er the yellow tinted bower a strange lone light is cast,
Whilst sighs, as if from Nature's heart, fill every mournful blast.
The cot which glimmered through the trees, when summer clothed each bough,
Is plainly on the hill defined, through scanty foliage now;
The grain which waved to summer winds is garnered in the store,
The pasture grounds, now bleak and chill, no lambkins frolic o'er;
The stream, that to its margin flowers sang murmurs soft and low,
Now dark and sullen, rushes on with hoarse impetuous flow;
Pursued by Autumn's moaning gale, the rustling verdure see
Fly o'er the ground, or clustering cling to sheltering stone or tree.
O'er all the lately teeming earth a change marks every scene—
The withering vestures of decay tell where each bloom hath been;
Yet Autumn saw its golden hours, its hours of grateful mirth,
When, fair amid her fading charms, appeared the bounteous Earth,
As traces of decay implied bloom's desolation nigh,
And she the cornucopia full bestowed with smile and sigh.
The fir boughs on the cottage hearth send high a cheerful blaze,
Whilst round the walls each burnished thing is bright with flickering rays;
The door is closed, the window screened, the room with comfort fraught,
'Tis twilight's stilly dark'ning hour, so dear to wandering thought;
And where the cheerful hearthlight falls in warm and shadowy play,
It gleams upon the brow of one whose thoughts seem far away.
Oh! dancing flame, a steadier ray upon those features pour—
Can this be she whose blooming charms so raptured us of yore?'
She too is changed: the golden locks are dimmed, whilst many a thread
Of silver gleams amid the once bright honours of her head;
The contour of her cheek is gone, subdued her glance's light,
And furrows mark the thoughtful brow so sunny once and white;
There's that in her mild altered face which more than time betrays,
She hath not reached unscathed by care the Autumn of her days.
She had her cherished household gods set up at which to bow
Within the temple of her heart—each niche is empty now;
Her heart's desire, her eye's delight, were severed from her side,
And long "deep calling unto deep" was all that filled the void.
But oft the chasm hewn by grief affords a healing spring,
In which to cool the fevered brow upon life's journeying;
Her lip hath quaffed the wholesome cup, her bosom owned its balm,
And now upon dark trials past her eye falls, sad, but calm,
She marks how brief the trodden span from Autumn's withering bowers,
Back through the summer's sunny path, to spring- time's dewy flowers;
"Can this be life's decline," she cries, "nigh closed my Autumn days?
Oh! still there's verdure on the waste, and joy' attempered rays."
The door's unclosed, young forms appear, with health and beauty fraught,
And with glad voices interrupt the wandering stream of thought;
Not all bereft, she feels life's tale cannot be yet half told—
Oh! could she linger here—but Time his pinions may not fold.
 

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No. IV. Winter: Old Age.

The fast-descending snow-flakes whirl am1d the darkening air,
Swept by the keen and gusty winds o'er scenes of verdure bare;
Far as the wandering eye can pierce the drifting mazes through,
One desert-like unbroken waste spreads white before the view.
The cottage now is scarce defined, amidst its background snow,
Save by the trees which to the gale writhe wildly to and fro.
Mute lies the stream—the hand of frost hath bound each bubbling spring,
And to each spray that kissed its surf, the glistening ice-spears cling.
Slow wending o'er the snow-spread path, and tottering to the storm,
Oft pausing o'er his staff to breathe, behold an age-bowed form.
Oh! weary, weary falls each step, and wistfully his eyes
Seem measuring the untrodden ground which yet before him Ties.
Each feeble tread the space makes less, the cot more near and near;
The traveller lifts his palsied hand, and wipes a trembling tear.
Within the cot the biting blast no entrance can obtain,
And as in spite it hurls the snow gainst door and window pane;
But from the angry storm secure, and heedless of the gloom,
The intercepted window light would shed throughout the room.
The peaceful inmates of the cot both light and warmth enjoy;
Upon the hearth the cheerful blaze is dancing light and high,
And happy in domestic bliss those circling round the fire—
There prattling infancy makes smile the matron and the sire.
(lad little ones with beaming brows, and brightly flowing hair,
To speak their mirth in louder tone, crowd round the elbow chair,
Where one reclines whose once keen ear is dull to every strain,
Whose hand, which pats each little head, is marked by many a vein
Whose hollow cheek and shrivelled brow, by countless wrinkles crossed.
Display the hue the sear-leaf wears 'neath autumn's withering frost.
She bows her palsied head, and smiles, and speaks with faltering tongue,
Of times which seem like yesterdays when she like them was young—
When she with one, a brother dear, her every pleasure shared,
And what a stately youth he grew—how tall—how raven-haired!
How vividly she sees him now, just as she viewed him when
He left his home for climes afar, and ne'er returned again.
That brother's oft-repeated name to them sounds nothing new,
At once they'd recognise the man whose portrait oft she drew.
Hush!—Hark!—Was that the pelting storm?—No; quickly ope the door:
'Tis done—the aged traveller stands before them on the floor;
The snow-wreaths from his garb they brush, and from his hoary hair,
And heap more faggots on the hearth, nigh which they place a chair.
Here rest thy feeble limbs, old man, 'tis not for thee to tread
The stormy earth, with such a weight of years upon thy head;
'Tis well that on thy weary path you saw our cot appear—
Now warm thy trembling hands, old man, and take our welcome cheer.
O'ercome he sinks—some tender chord is quivering in his breast,
Upon each face his dim eyes seem enquiringly to rest;
When in a sad desponding tone he murmurs—"strange, all strange:
The cot alone—the dear old home—appears devoid of change.
O! tell me, ye who now reside where first I breathed the air,
Are all who formed our household band named 'mongst the things that were?
I had a sister, loved and fair, and blythe as summer morn,
And she at least I hoped still cheered the home where we were born."
This aged grand-dame bends to hear—perchance her mind recalls
Some memory of the loved and lost, once glad within these walls.
Here converse ensues, which to them a wondrous truth unfolds,
Each in the other's shattered form their mother's child beholds-—
Brother and sister meet at last, in warm and kind embrace,
The big tears trickling one by one o'er each poor altered face,
Whilst talking of their early joys, and later pleasures gone—
The brevity of longest life, when backward gazed upon,
How meteor-like life's stage is trod, and vanity of all
Earth's passing honours, griefs, or joys, when comes the curtain's fall.

And this is life, a fleeting shade—a gleam of early dew—
A pathway to eternity, which mortals hurry through:
First tread we o'er a spot of spring, then bowers of summer light,
Tread rustling leaves and winter snows, then pass from human sight.
Then how important to secure, whilst travelling through life's vale,
A passport to that better land, whose pleasures never fail.