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Where are the dusky miners ?—they
Who, ever in the earth descending,

Know well the night before their May
Is one which has in life no ending?

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
Of light, or dark, no rest receiving,

Far o'er your heads a May time blooms—
O then be patient, and believing.

Be patient; when earth's winter fails—
The weary night, which keeps ye staying,—

Then through the broad celestial vales
Your spirits shall go out a-Maying.

T. B. Read



Summer is a glorious season,
Warm, and bright, and pleasant;

But the past is not a reason
To despise the present:

So, while health can climb the mountain,
And the log lights up the hall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us,

Maiden-like in charms;
Summer, too, with all her promise,

Perish'd in our arms:
But the memory of the vanish'd

Whom our hearts recall,
Maketh sunny days in winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh—

All the best are dead;
But the wall-flower still perfumeth

Yonder garden bed;
And the arbutus, pearl-blossom'd,

Hangs its coral ball:
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty—very,

And I love them well;
But this holly's glistening berry

None of those excel.
While the fir can warm the landscape,

And the ivy clothes the wall,
There are sunny days in winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season

Wait the innocent;—
Those who taste with love and reason

What their God has sent;
Those who neither soar too highly,

Nor too lowly fall,
Feel the sunny days of winter, after all 1

Then, although our darling treasures

Vanish from the heart;
Then, although our once-loved pleasures

One by one depart;
Though the tomb looms in the distance,
And the mourning pall,
There is sunshine, and no winter, after all!

D. F. Macarthy



As the hardy oat is growing,

Howsoe'er the wind may blow;
As the untired stream is flowing,

Whether shines the sun or no :—
Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,

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,
Shine yet intense, and tender;

Or, slowly passing, only change
From splendour on to splendour.

Before the dying eyes of day

Immortal visions wander;
Dreams prescient of a purer ray,

And morn spread still beyond her.

Lo! heavenward now those gleams expire,

In heavenly melancholy,
The barrier-mountain, peak, and spire,

Relinquishing them slowly.

Thus shine, O God! our mortal powers,
While grief and joy refine them—

And when in death they fade, be ours
Thus gently to resign them!

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
Her breath, that Spring is come indeed?

The swallow doubts not; nor the rose
That stirs, but wakes not; nor the weed.

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
From craggy shelf, through sylvan glades,

The pale narcissus, well I know,

Smiles hour by hour on greener shades.

The honey'd cowslip tufts one more
The golden slopes ;—with gradual ray

The primrose stars the rock, and o'er
The wood-path strews its milky way.

I see her not—I feel her near,

As charioted in mildest airs
She sails through yon empyreal sphere,

And in her arms and bosom bears

That urn of flowers, and lustral dews,
Whose sacred balm, on all things shed,

Revives the weak, the old renews,
And crowns with votive wreaths the dead.

A. De Vere


The time so tranquil is, and clear,
That nowhere shall ye find,

Save on a high and barren hill,
The air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,

That balmy leaf do bear,
Than they were painted on a wall,

No more they move, or stir.

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