Yea, and thy own charms, Nature, when portrayed
By hand of man, become the spoil of time.
The seasons mar, not change, them: in sublime
Repose they reign—but evermore to fade.
Whence comes, then, thy perennial youth renewed?
Thy freshness as of everlasting morn?
God's breath is on thee. Of it thou wast born,
And with its fragrance is thy life bedewed.
Nor can I need aught sterner than thy face
To wean me from the things that pass away.
Not by autumnal lesson of decay,
Or vernal hymn of renovating grace,
But by this fragrance of the Infinite;
For here my soul catches her native air,
And tastes the ever fresh, the ever fair,
That wait her in the Gardens of Delight.
Lake George, August, 1873.
FOOTNOTES:
"The beings of the mind are not of clay:
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more belov'd existence."
—Byron.