THE ARBOUR

    I'll rest me in this sheltered bower¹, And look upon the clear blue sky That smiles upon me through the trees, Which stand so thick clustering by；

    And view their green and glossy² leaves, All glistening³ in the sunshine fair； And list the rustling⁴ of their boughs⁵, So softly whispering through the air.

    And while my ear drinks in the sound, My winged soul shall fly away； Reviewing lone⁶ departed years As one mild, beaming, autumn day；

    And soaring on to future scenes, Like hills and woods, and valleys green, All basking⁷ in the summer's sun, But distant still, and dimly seen.

    Oh, list！ 'tis summer's very breath That gently shakes the rustling trees

    - But look！ the snow is on the ground—— How can I think of scenes like these？ 'Tis but the FROST that clears the air, And gives the sky that lovely blue； They're smiling in a WINTER'S sun, Those evergreens⁸ of sombre hue⁹.

    And winter's chill is on my heart—— How can I dream of future bliss¹⁰？

    How can my spirit soar away, Confined by such a chain as this？