In vain, upon her emerald car,
Comes Spring, “the maiden from afar,”
And scatters o’er the woods and fields
The liberal gifts that nature yields;
In vain the buds begin to grow,
In vain the crocus gilds the snow;
I feel no joy though earth be gay—­
’Tis winter all when thou’rt away!

And when the Autumn crowns the year,
And ripened hangs the golden ear,
And luscious fruits of ruddy hue
The bending boughs are glancing through,
When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks
Come forth and try the mountain brooks,
Even then I feel, as there I stray—­
’Tis winter all when thou’rt away!

And when the winter comes at length,
With swaggering gait and giant strength,
And with his strong arms in a trice
Binds up the streams in chains of ice,
What need I sigh for pleasures gone,
The twilight eve, the rosy dawn? 
My heart is changed as much as they—­
’Tis winter all when thou’rt away!

Even now, when Summer lends the scene
Its brightest gold, its purest green,
Whene’er I climb the mountain’s breast,
With softest moss and heath-flowers dress’d,
When now I hear the breeze that stirs
The golden bells that deck the furze,
Alas! unprized they pass away—­
’Tis winter all when thou’rt away!

But when thou comest back once more,
Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,
And mists obscure the nearest hills,
And dark and turbid roll the rills,
Such pleasures then my breast shall know,
That summer’s sun shall round me glow;
Then through the gloom shall gleam the May—­
’Tis winter all when thou’rt away!

KATE OF KENMARE.

Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,
  Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,
And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,
  Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! 
But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,
  Ne’er fashioned a being so faultless and fair
As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]
  The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,
  Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me;
But time has not ages and earth has not distance
  To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! 
Again am I straying where children are playing,
  Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air,
Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,
  Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!

Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster
  Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air;
But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre
  No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear;
To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,
  Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? 
Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,
  That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!