Who loveth not the sunshine? oh! who loveth not the bright And blessed mercy of His smile, who said, "Let there be light"? Who lifteth not his face to meet the rich and glowing beam? Who dwelleth not with miser eyes upon such golden stream? Let those who will accord their song to hail the revel blaze That only comes where feasting reigns and courtly gallants gaze! But the sweet and merry sunshine is a braver theme to sing, For it kindles round the peasant while it bursts above the king.
We hear young voices round us now swell loud in eager joy, We're jostled by the tiny child, and sturdy, romping boy; In city street and hamlet path, we see blithe forms arise; And childhood's April life comes forth as glad as April skies. Oh! what can be the magic lure that beckons them abroad To sport upon the grassy plain, or tread the dusty road? Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has call'd them out to play, And scatter'd them, like busy bees, all humming in our way.
The bloom is on the cherry-tree—the leaf is on the elm; The bird and butterfly have come to claim their fairy realm; Unnumber'd stars are on the earth—the fairest who can choose, When all are painted with the tints that form the rainbow's hues? What spirit-wand hath waken'd them? the branch of late was bare, The world was desolate—but now there's beauty everywhere. 'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine has unfolded leaf and flower, And tells us of the Infinite, of Glory, and of Power.
We see Old Age and Poverty forsake the fire-side chair, And leave a narrow, cheerless home, to taste the vernal air; The winter hours were long to him who had no spice-warm'd cup, No bed of down to nestle in, no furs to wrap him up. But now he loiters 'mid the crowd, and leans upon his staff, He gossips with his lowly friends, and joins the children's laugh. 'Tis the bright and merry sunshine that has led the old man out, To hear once more the Babel roar, and wander round about.
The bright and merry sunshine-see, it even creepeth in Where prison bars shut out all else from solitude and sin; The doom'd one marks the lengthen'd streak that poureth through the chink; It steals along—it flashes! oh! 'tis on his fetter link. Why does he close his bloodshot eyes? why breathe with gasping groan? Why does he turn to press his brow against the walls of stone? The bright and merry sunshine has call'd back some dream of youth, Of green fields and a mother's love, of happiness and truth.
The sweet and merry sunshine makes the very churchyard fair; We half forget the yellow bones, while yellow flowers are there; And while the summer beams are thrown upon the osier'd heap, We tread with lingering footsteps where our "rude forefathers sleep." The hemlock does not seem so rank—the willow is not dull; The rich flood lights the coffin nail and burnishes the skull. Oh! the sweet and merry sunshine is a pleasant thing to see, Though it plays upon a grave-stone through the gloomy cypress tree.
There's a sunshine that is brighter, that is warmer e'en than this; That spreadeth round a stronger gleam, and sheds a deeper bliss; That gilds whate'er it touches with a lustre all its own, As brilliant on the cottage porch as on Assyria's throne. It gloweth in the human soul, it passeth not away; And dark and lonely is the heart that never felt its ray: 'Tis the sweet and merry sunshine of Affection's gentle light, That never wears a sullen cloud, and fadeth not in night.
