2
POEMS.
How varied her themes! One moment she sings
Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright things;
Then she changes her tune; more plaintive her moan,
Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions flown—
How holy each lesson! good and true she must be,
The friend, who is ever thus singing to me.
Of honey-drops, bubbles, and all such bright things;
Then she changes her tune; more plaintive her moan,
Of life's disenchantments, and youth's visions flown—
How holy each lesson! good and true she must be,
The friend, who is ever thus singing to me.
I welcome her presence, as welcomes the flower
The soft breath of summer, the dew and the shower;
Should these be withheld, every blossom must die,
And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet singer fly.
So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee
For the first rose of June,—she brings June to me.
The soft breath of summer, the dew and the shower;
Should these be withheld, every blossom must die,
And my heart would grow sad, should this sweet singer fly.
So I watch for her coming, as waiteth the bee
For the first rose of June,—she brings June to me.
Then say, is there no one who kindly will tell
The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell
O'er all things around me, beneath me, above,
And warbles sweet music wherever I rove—
And breathes over all a moral so pure—
Hark! a soft voice replies—'tis an angel, I'm sure.
The name of this sibyl who weaveth her spell
O'er all things around me, beneath me, above,
And warbles sweet music wherever I rove—
And breathes over all a moral so pure—
Hark! a soft voice replies—'tis an angel, I'm sure.
