O'er the wide fields the herds have ceased to rove, The tuneful birds have hushed their morning song, Silent and lone is the deserted grove Which late re-echoed to the warbling throng. Hark! hark! I hear, sounding the vales along, The mellow horn--the pleasant sound which calls From the hot fields, the wearied harvest throng To seek, where the old oak tree's shadow falls, Their noon-day meal hard by the flowery cottage walls. Within a green and trellised bower I lie, Securely sheltered from the solar rays, And on the bright and glowing summer sky In contemplation rapt, I fix my gaze, And scan each fleecy cloud which slowly strays Like some pure spirit o'er the azure dome, Making amid its wild and trackless ways, Its boundless depths, a bright ethereal home Where lone and airy forms in silent grandeur roam. And here at noon-day hour I often dream Of the fair hopes which light life's gloomy waste-- A desart plain o'er which a laughing stream, Has found a way, its banks with wild flowers graced. But ah! alas! when the fair stream is traced, Amid lone sands we find its darksome goal. O dreary life! in death's cold grasp embraced-- A withered thing, a dark and blotted scroll, O'er which oblivion's deep and sluggish waters roll. In early youth upon the sea of life, We spread our sails, nor dream of pain nor care, Nor the fierce tempest, nor the raging strife Which gathers round our bark where'er we steer, But on we rush, heedless and without fear, Till, shipwrecked all our hopes, we helpless lie And feel the bitter pangs of black despair-- Or from the demon strive in vain to fly, Or rush into the arms of Death and madly die. The sun is sinking down the western skies-- A holy calm is reigning o'er the earth-- From the green valleys cheerful sounds arise-- The tinkling sheep-bell, and the merry mirth Of happy children--laughing at the birth Of some new pleasure. Now the setting sun, More brightly gleaming o'er the virent earth, Casts a rich glow of golden light upon The fleecy clouds, which line the western horizon. Along yon valley where (a silent grove!) Those dark green pines in loneliness arise; With a sad heart in solitude I'll rove, And darkly muse upon the broken ties {38} Of happier days--the bright and smiling eyes, Whose gentle light gave life a summer bloom, And made this earth seem like a Paradise-- Now cold and rayless in the starless gloom, Which darkly hovers o'er and shrouds the loathsome tomb.