Made the gay summer but a trysting time,
And prayerful music poured aloft to Him!
No more they usher, with their mellow song,
The bright-eyed morning beaming through the cloud—
Where erst they met, in bright melodious throng,
Now roars the tempest in its wrath aloud.
The brook is frozen!
The babbling streamlet sparkles now no more
In the full glory of the sun’s warm beam;
The ice-king’s sceptre has been wafted o’er,