Cora

When through thy arching aisles,O Nature, I perceiveWhat brooding stillness fills the lonesome choirsWhere, heaven'd late, thy sweet musicians sung;

What rude benumbing touchStrips from reluctant boughsThe languid leaves, and bares to common viewThe sacred nest,—the mute, expressive nest,

Whose state defenseless tellsOf fledgeling treasures flown,—Then, like the prudent birds, my thoughts take flight,Winging o'er wintry fields to find the spring.

Somewhere on Earth's cold breastThe dauntless crocus glows,And fair Narcissus hangs his head and dreams:There,—laughing, blushing, like a happy bride,

With tears in her sweet eyesTo kiss away, shylyThe Maiden comes, and, as she moves along,The woods and waking wolds intone her praise.

I, too, where all things tellOf Autumn chill and blight,—I, too, will praise her, ay, with transport hymnThe unforgotten sweetness of the spring.

How desolate were ManIf, robbed of dear delight,He might not with remembrance fond pursueAnd find his happiness, and lead it back!

The mournful Stygian shadesWere less forlorn than he;For they have memory, and cannot loseBright visions once in conscious bliss possessed!

Through Hades' wailful halls,Bereft of Proserpine,They pensive glide, yet feel the far, sweet spring,And seem to breathe lost Enna's distant flowers.