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Where are the dusky miners ?—they
Know well the night before their May
To them 'tis still a joy, I ween,
To know, while through the darkness going, That o'er their heads the smiling queen
Stands with her countless garlands glowing.
O ye who toil in living tombs
Far o'er your heads a May time blooms—
Be patient; when earth's winter fails—
Then through the broad celestial vales
T. B. Read
SUNNY DA YS IN WINTER
Summer is a glorious season,
But the past is not a reason
So, while health can climb the mountain,
Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,
Maiden-like in charms;
Perish'd in our arms:
Whom our hearts recall,
True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh—
All the best are dead;
Yonder garden bed;
Hangs its coral ball:
Summer trees are pretty—very,
And I love them well;
None of those excel.
And the ivy clothes the wall,
Sunny hours in every season
Wait the innocent;—
What their God has sent;
Nor too lowly fall,
Then, although our darling treasures
Vanish from the heart;
One by one depart;
D. F. Macarthy
As the hardy oat is growing,
Howsoe'er the wind may blow;
Whether shines the sun or no :—
Should the strong plant, Duty, grow— Thus, with beauty, or without it,
Should the stream of being flow.
D. F. Macarthy
The lights o'er yonder snowy range,
Or, slowly passing, only change
Before the dying eyes of day
Immortal visions wander;
And morn spread still beyond her.
Lo! heavenward now those gleams expire,
In heavenly melancholy,
Relinquishing them slowly.
Thus shine, O God! our mortal powers,
And when in death they fade, be ours
A. De Vere
Once more, through God's high will and grace,
Of hours that each its task fulfils, Heart-healing Spring resumes its place
The valley through, and scales the hills.
Who knows not Spring? who doubts when blows
The swallow doubts not; nor the rose
Once more the cuckoo's call I hear;
I know, in many a glen profound, The earliest violets of the year
Rise up like water from the ground.
The thorn, I know, once more is. white;
And far down many a forest dale, The anemones in dubious light
Are trembling like a bridal veil.
Ry streams released that surging flow
The pale narcissus, well I know,
Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.
The honey'd cowslip tufts one more
The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
I see her not—I feel her near,
As charioted in mildest airs
And in her arms and bosom bears
That urn of flowers, and lustral dews,
Revives the weak, the old renews,
A. De Vere
ccxv THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DA V
The time so tranquil is, and clear,
Save on a high and barren hill,
All trees and simples, great and small,
That balmy leaf do bear,
No more they move, or stir.