III.
Shall we laugh as we stand at earth’s palace-door,
With the faded crown that poor Summer wore,
And placing it on her sister’s brow,
Forget the face that once smiled beneath
That faded crown, and the flowery breath
That parted those lips now cold in death?
For Autumn is monarch now.
IV.
Summer is dead. Shall we laugh or weep?
Is she really dead or only asleep
With her sleeping garments on?
She only sleeps, and in meadow and grove
Again in gay dances her steps shall move;
But shall she come back with the friends we love?
God knows, and His will be done.
ON A DEAD FIELD-FLOWER.
Torn by some careless hand
From thy mother’s breast,
Where gentle breezes fann’d
Thy little leaves to rest,
Here dost thou lie, forsaken,
No more shalt thou awaken,
To gladden with thy beauty the wanderer opprest!
No more at early morn,
When the lark’s gay song,
Through grove and meadow borne,
Calls his merry mates along,
Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading,
Their grateful odour shedding,
Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng!
Peaceful and calm thy sleep!
Thy life’s race run,
Thou hadst no cause to weep,
No duty left undone!
Sweet little withered blossom,
How many a blighted bosom
Would fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun!