BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH.
O Blessed sunshine, and thrice-blessed rain,
How ye do warm and melt the rugged soil,—
Which else were barren, nathless all my toil
And summon Beauty from her grave again,
To breathe live odors o'er my scant domain:
How softly from their parting buds uncoil
The furléd sweets, no more a shriveled spoil
To the loud storm, or canker's silent bane;
Were it all sun, the heat would shrink them up;
Were it all shower, then piteous blight were sure;
Now hangs the dew in every nodding cup,
Shooting new glories from its orblets pure.
Sunshine and shower, I shrink from your extremes,
But with delight behold your blended gleams.