HOURS WITH NATURE.

When smiling spring, an angel fair! 
  Walks o’er the verdant plain,
And breathes a soft and balmy air,
  From isles beyond the main: 
When robins sing, and waters play,
  And lambs skip o’er the mead,
And forest birds, with music gay,
  Their callow offspring feed: 
When May-flowers shine by every stream,
  And fragrants showers come down,
While sun-rays o’er the mountains gleam,
  And form a dazzling crown:—­
Oh! then ’tis sweet to be with thee,
  Dear Nature ever fair,
To roam thy walks of song and glee,
  Thy realms, sky, earth and air. 
Bright angel spring, thou seem’st divine,
  With ever smiling brow: 
No sin-created gloom is thine,
  Nought dims thy beauty now. 
Wide earth, stream, river, lake and sea,
  Shine forth an angel land,
Where spirits, robed in purity,
  Roam, love-linked, hand in hand. 
Now June, like full-blown womanhood,
  Succeeds the maiden spring,
And broods upon the solitude,
  With broad and bird-like wing. 
The air re-echoes forth a song
  Of full and perfect bliss,
Where happy lovers roam along,
  And melt into a kiss. 
But Summer bursts upon the world,
  With views of waving grain,
Beneath the sweating sickle hurled,
  Upon the fragrant plain. 
The warm, long day calls forth at length,
  The storm’s electric fire,
That shatters the oak’s imperial strength,
  And bids the shrubs expire. 
The cloud rolls off—­and see! what pride! 
  A many colored bow,
Hangs on the cloud’s retreating side,
  And o’er the fields below. 
Then, glorious summer flies away,
  From upland, slope and plain;
And Autumn, crowned with shocks of hay,
  Appears in joy again. 
Old, jolly Autumn! happy man! 
  Wild tumbling on the meads;
We’ll love thee, Autumn, as we can,
  Thy glory is our needs. 
Thou heapest our barns with plenty—­thou
  Art, sure our faithful friend;
And, in the aspect of thy brow,
  Lovely and useful blend. 
Thy golden hues recede at length,
  And seem to sigh decay,
Till, thou, despoiled of life and strength,
  Art borne, a corpse, away. 
Wild, bleak, and blustering Winter wild,
  Assumes the icy throne;
Deep snows upon the earth are piled,
  And hushed is every tone. 
The trees stand bare, bleak skeletons,
  Of bodies once so fair,
And dirges, dirges, woeful ones,
  Resound amid the air. 
Bleak, winter wild! thy dreary scenes,
  Have yet one modest flower;
The daisy finds some little greens,
  Whereby she builds her bower. 
The daisy is a preacher wise,
  Whom heavenly robes array;
Each winter lives, and sweetly tries,
  A loving word to say. 
“Oh! man, amid thy darkest woe,
  Some humble bliss remains;—­
Then, let thy murmurings cease to flow,