Poems (Toke)/An equinoctial day
OW strange! a Summer sun below, Above a wintry blast;Here basking in meridian glow, There stormy winds rush past!Within this sheltered nook, the breeze Scarce waves yon flowerets pale;While far above, the topmost trees Are bending in the gale.
AN EQUINOCTIAL DAY.
OW strange! a Summer sun below, Above a wintry blast;Here basking in meridian glow, There stormy winds rush past!Within this sheltered nook, the breeze Scarce waves yon flowerets pale;While far above, the topmost trees Are bending in the gale.The winds their voices lift on high, The woods the sound prolong;Oh, well I love that melody Of wild, unearthly song!And well I love, when sunshine flings Its radiance upon earth,To listen to the tempest's wings, Unfurled as if in mirth.
For who, on such a day, could deem The voice of wrath was nigh?There's Summer in the laughing beam, There's Summer in the sky. But see! across that arch of light The snow-white clouds flit fast;Like heralds of the coming fight, They ride upon the blast.
Oh! strange it is, when all around Is calmly bright and fair,To hear that fierce, unearthly sound Rush wildly on the air;To see the whirling leaves in showers Untimely strew the earth,While not a breath disturbs the flowers Which there have lowly birth.
Rush on, ye stormy winds! rush on Beneath the deep blue sky!I love to hear that thrilling tone In melody sweep by.Sing round the mountains in your mirth, Float o'er the hills with glee;Breathe o'er the lowly plains of earth, And dance upon the sea!
The sea! I thought not on the sea. Ye tempests, cease to rave,Or though on earth your home may be, Yet breathe not on the wave.Oh! rouse not from their giant sleep The billows and the surge,Or that storm may sound across the deep, Full many a seaman's dirge.
'Tis fearful on the raging main, Though lovely here on land,Where the varied seasons seem again Entwining hand in hand:The golden hue of Summer time, The Autumn tints of grief';All save the Spring's young hour of prime, Her fresh and verdant leaf.
Like youth, she cannot come again, Borne on unruffled wing;The circling year, and life's brief span, Can feel no second Spring.On Winter's brow may Summer's beam Shine brightly as of yore,But still that early morning dream, Life's spring-time, comes no more.
But oh! if Faith and Peace illume Our mellow Autumn day,Who could regret the vernal bloom That passed so soon away?Who o'er the setting sun could sigh, If sure the morn would bringA beam to light Eternity,— A never-fading Spring?
E.
September 24, 1836.