It is the same clear dazzling scene;—
Perhaps the grass is scarce as green;
Perhaps the river's troubled voice
Doth not so plainly say—"Rejoice."
Yet Nature surely never ranges,
Ne'er quits her gay and flowery crown;—
But, ever joyful, merely changes
The primrose for the thistle-down.
'Tis we alone who, waxing old,
Look on her with an aspect cold,