William Henry Giles Kingston

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers.

When the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

With what a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy

On sunny slope and beechen swell The shadowed light of evening fell: And, where the maple's leaf was brown,

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

When the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered,

When the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

King Christian stood by the lofty mast In mist and smoke; His sword was hammering so fast,

Yes, the Year is growing old, And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold,

Bell! thou soundest merrily, When the bridal party To the church doth hie!

From the French of Charles D'Orleans, Fifteenth Century. Gentle Spring! - in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display!

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch Was glorious with the sun's returning march, And woods were brightened, and soft gales

I have read, in some old marvellous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of spectres pale

And now, behold! as at the approach of morning Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor.

The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

There is a quiet spirit in these woods, That dwells where'er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the whitethorn, in the glade,

Longing already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living green, Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day,

Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low, To lie amid some sylvan scene,

When winter winds are piercing chill And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,