Thou, who didst deem divine
The shrill cicada’s tune,
When the odours of the pine
Gushed through the woods at noon?
I have run my fervid race;
I have wrought my task once more;
I have filled each fruitful place
With a plenty that runs o’er.
There is treasure for the garner;
There is honey with the bee;
And, oh! thou thankless scorner,
There’s a parting boon for thee.
Soon as, in misty sadness,
Sere Autumn yields his reign,
Winter, with stormy madness,
Shall chase thee from the plain.
Then shall these scenes Elysian
Bright in thy spirit burn;
And each summer-thought and vision
Be thine till I return.
It may be remembered that from this volume the poem of “Penn and the Indians,” in a [former sheet], was extracted.
Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.
Mompesson’s Pulpit in the Rock.