Dear is the morning gale of spring,

And dear th’ autumnal eve;

But few delights can summer bring

A Poet’s crown to weave.

Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,

And ever Fancy’s wing

Speed’s from beneath her cloudless sky

To autumn or to spring.

Sweet is the infant’s waking smile,

And sweet the old man’s rest —

But middle age by no fond wile,

No soothing calm is blest.

Still in the world’s hot restless gleam

She plies her weary task,

While vainly for some pleasant dream

Her wandering glances ask. —

O shame upon thee, listless heart,

So sad a sigh to heave,

As if thy Saviour had no part

In thoughts, that make thee grieve.

As if along His lonesome way

He had not borne for thee

Sad languors through the summer day,

Storms on the wintry sea.

Youth’s lightning flash of joy secure

Pass’d seldom o’er His spright, —

A well of serious thought and pure.

Too deep for earthly light.

No spring was His — no fairy gleam —

For He by trial knew

How cold and bare what mortals dream,

To worlds where all is true.

Then grudge not thou the anguish keen

Which makes thee like thy Lord,

And learn to quit with eye serene

Thy youth’s ideal hoard.

Thy treasur’d hopes and raptures high —

Unmurmuring let them go,

Nor grieve the bliss should quickly fly

Which Christ disdain’d to know.

Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon;

The pure, calm hope be thine,

Which brightens, like the eastern moon,

As day’s wild lights decline.

Thus souls, by nature pitch’d too high,

By sufferings plung’d too low,

Meet in the Church’s middle sky,

Half way ’twixt joy and woe,

To practise there the soothing lay

That sorrow best relieves;

Thankful for all God takes away,

Humbled by all He gives.