It is now the midsummer of a fleeting year,

The sward brown and flowers faint and few,

Songbirds are hushed all but a faint but clear halloo,

And ‘larum of the bird-boy reach the ear,

Through the warm air floats forth lime’s perfume,

And wayside boughs have lost the rose’s bloom.

The corn is golden along a thousand slopes,

All crisply rustling to a living breeze,

And amid the billowy sound of summer trees,

I wander, pondering on departed hopes,

Nor hopes alone, but pleasant lives departed,

I walk alone, for I am lonely-hearted.

What of those blest affections have I found,

Which life should ripen like its summer corn?

Which hath not from my feeble grasp been torn,

Of all the love with which young life was crowned?

Hearts, which if I would seek, I know not where,

To find their graves and yet they have long been there.

These fell away like leaves when life was new,

Smitten with that blight to which the fairest clings,

And, though I have lived on through many springs,

No greeness follows where those first buds grew,

Still glows the heart, but it glows without power,

To give or gain the freshness of that hour.

Yet why should I be sad? for nature spreads,

Her wealth before me daily, from her heart,

Do joys, proud thoughts, sweet sympathies impart,

Which I drink in like one who nothing dreads,

Fearless that hers like man’s weak faith should fall,

Her face should darken, or her pleasures pall.

Yet, why should I be sad? for I have found,

One true companion, one dear soul is mine,

Whose converse still does sooth, amuse, refine,

And on my heart there is a cheerful sound,

Of light footsteps in my ears,

Ring loke the hopes and joys of other years.

Then though the false depart, the weak descend,

Through lights which seemed immortal cease to burn,

Though it be mine with bitter tears to mourn,

Life’s sorest sight, lifes work without end,

Firm is my faith in truth and virtue’s lot,

Though thousands feign, and myriads feel them not.