The thought that those charms, now so lovely and blooming, Will soon be all lost in the ruin around; That Winter so quickly, its horrors resuming, Will blast each sweet sight, and will hush each "sweet sound. O! this is the thought that to fancy's strong feel. ings Its colouring gives, as I wander along; O! this is the thought that, o'er memory stealing, Brings back all the sweets of the Summer that's gone. Last eve I was passing yon ivy-clad ruin, And, struck with its beauty, I pensively stood; On the path which led to it the wild winds were strewing A few leaves which still kept their bloom in the wood. An owlet was hooting its notes 'mong the arches, While Echo prolong'd the monotonous sound, And clusters of willows, and chesnuts, and larches, Bereft of their leaves, look'd so sadly around. A beam from the sun through the window was shining, A thrush, sad and lonely, sat perch'd on the yew, Whose old wither'd branch, like the season declining, Was blasted by lightning, and steep'd in the dew. This thrush's wild note sounded just like a ditty: Sweet bird, chant your dirge, for your prospect is dreary; O, if you were wise you would perch on mine arm; And then would I carry you home to sweet Mary, And much she would love you, and keep you from harm. "O no, I am free; and those wild woods and mountains,—” Sweet bird, had you language, that language would be, "I'm free, and one drop from those cold flowing fountains Is dearer by far, ten times dearer to me." Then stay in your wild woods, sweet warbler, nor wander; For soon lovely Summer will come back again; Again will those streams round the green groves meander, Again will sweet sunbeams revisit the glen. WINTER. "FREEZE, shiver, and tremble, sure Winter is come: 'Tis true, with his rain and his snows; The frozen old blow-cool, I wish he would stay With his friends at Kamschatka; what brought him away? Just hear, o'er the hill how he blows! "And must we give up our sweet sunbeams and flowers? And must we give up our long days? And must we give up all our play and our sport, Thus spoke little Arthur, as passing beneath sound Was heard in deep peals 'mong the echoes around; 'Twas the hoarse hollow sound of the flood. The light pliant boughs of the sycamore tree, F 62 WINTER. The mountains and valleys were cover'd with snow, Not a flower or a leaf to be got; The streams look'd so cold; and a poor little wren Sat mournfully perch'd on a bough in the glen, And whistling its sorrowful note. The fields, trees, and streamlets were all of one hue; A swallow lay dead on the ground; A robin, half-starv'd, on the bough of the lime Seem'd to grieve o'er the ruin around. The brown ivy-berries which grew on its walls Were pluck'd by the blackbird and thrush; While groups of grey plover, and snipe, and woodcocks, For shelter and food, o'er the neighbouring rocks Were seen in a body to rush. "I am freezing," said Arthur: "O, Winter, pray go, And let the sweet Summer return. O, Summer, come back, with your sweet sunny hours, Your apples, your pears, and those beautiful flowers, Which look with such bloom in the bourn." Come in, little Arthur, and grumble no more; By Him who bids sunbeams and tempests arise, By Him who commandeth each change in the skies: So stop now-no more discontent. Remember the charms which cold Winter can bring; Remember the happy fireside; Remember the sociable party at tea; The reading, the chatting, the dance, and the glee, To Spring and to Summer denied. Remember, my child, all the good you possess ; And O, little Arthur, remember the God Who gives you such comfort and good; While those wretched ones, perhaps better than you, With sickness, and hunger, and death's ghastly hue, Pine and shrink from the tempest so rude. |