1850-60.] MARY R. T. McAVOY. 621 The moon is up, the night is waning fast, My boat is anchored by the pebbled shore, And I have lingered here to look my last, Upon the home that may be ours no more, Madeleine. SERENADE. The Minstrel sang in the orient land Of the zephyr's balmy sigh, And the flowers that gorgeously expand Beneath a cloudless sky ; But I, as I wander, wake a song, To the glad rejoicing rain, That patters, and pours, and sweeps along, Till the old woods ring again; To the stormy dash and the diamond flash Of the bright resounding rain ! Hurra ! hui-ra ! for the royal rain, With its wild and gleesorae shout, As over valley and hill and plain It idly roams about, Wooing each spring and gushing rill With myriad, musical words. Sweeter than all the songs that fill The haunts of the forest birds — Ah ! sweeter than every sound of earth Those myriad, musical words. Sweet was the minstrel's antique strain, Of green and starlit bowers ; But sweeter the sound of the gentle rain. That wakens the sleeping flowers. That freshens each mossy, shaded bank, Where the leaves are springing up, And fills with nectar the woodland tank For the fairies' acorn cup, The bright rejoicing rain that falls. Where the flowers are springing up. Ah ! maiden, wake from thy drowsy dreams. Dost hear the rippling rain ? List to its myriad, musical themes, As it sweeps across the plain ; It brings a song for the silent streams, A blush for the folded flowers. And whispers low of the sunny beams That follow the genial showers. Then waken, oh ! waken, maiden fair, Awake with the dreaming; flowers. IT IS THE WINTER OF THE YEAR. It is the winter of the year. On buried flowers the snow-drifts lie. And clouds have vailed with ashen gray, The blueness of the summer sky. No brooks in babbling ripples run — No birds are singing in the hedge — No violets nodding in the sun. Beside the lakelet's frozen edge; Yet unto bruised and broken boughs, Freshly the greenest mosses cling, And near the winter's stormy verge, Floateth the fragrant bloom of Spring. It is the winter of my life. On buried flowers the snow-drifts lie, And clouds have vailed with ashen gray, The blueness of my summer sky. No light steps cross my threshold stone. No voice of love my ear doth greet, No gentle hands enclasp mine own, With cordial welcome fond and sweet ; Yet unto bruised and broken heai'ts, The words of tenderest promise cling, And floateth near Time's stormy verge, The bloom of everlasting Spring.
