So is come the signal of the year;
Proper is our aestival repose-
Round the tow'ring minarets we hear
In the silent bowers of the rose,
Now and then, quite gladly, without fear,
Glowing notes of birdsong in the boughs.
Soon is reached the apex of the day-
Unknown to those who dwell in northern cold,
Memorie'd, significant, honourable, and gay,
Most reverent, ephemeral, and bold,
E'er fragrant, clearing brazen clouds away:
Resplendent weather, florid to behold.
Ah, me! That lion days should pass away
Undreamt of by a crueller age,
Till drifts of dreaming crops betray
Unlooked for signs of silent rage:
Meant in the coming struggle of the day,
Not frowned on by the cunning sage.
When, o, at last, the perfidition comes,
In cruel-bound climes, enamel-cast,
No pow'r stern can beat its brazen drums,
To stem the grimy vengeance of the blast:
Even the joyful fowls are waxen dumb,
Roughly the fulsome branches are downcast.
No comments:
Post a Comment