[A SUMMER IDYL]
I hear the sound of the reapers,
All in the golden grain,
And voices of strong young binders,
Singing a sweet refrain.
The winds are asleep on the hilltops,
And the sun smiles down in the vale,
Till the rose faints under his glances,
And her cheek grows wan and pale.
The meadows are green as the ocean;
And the winds, when they wake from rest,
Ripple and billow the grasses,
Like waves on the ocean's breast.
The vine grows over my window,
Where the humming bird comes each day,
And the robin and thrush in the willow,
Are singing their lives away.
Oh, beautiful, languid Summer!
You are so fleet, so fleet.
Oh, youth, and joy, and gladness,
You are so sweet--so sweet!
My life is a wonderful poem,
Complete in measure and rhyme,
And the sweetest of all the stanzas
Is written this summer time.
But the golden harvest is going--
The summer will fade and pass.
The thrush and the robin will vanish,
And the snow fall over the grass.
The vine at my window will perish.
And the beautiful poem of life
Will change to a measure of sorrow,
And be marred and broken by strife.
Then revel in youth, and summer;
Oh, heart, be glad and gay,
For sorrow, and blight, and winter,
Are coming to us one day.
1872
[THE MUSICIANS]
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary--
The strains of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others--
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master
Swept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish.
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow.
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on strain,
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again:
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.