Now Pale the Distant Sun

Now pale the distant sun's low beams are shed, The streamlet silent in its channel glides, The water butter-cup all chilly rides,

And thick the clouds come, sad and gray as lead,

And weep their burdens o'er the mountain's head. The spotted frog in some dark prison hides, The songsters' notes now cease their rival tides —

Now is the beauty of the summer dead.

O saddened is the path my own thought takes — To live again Love's Golden Dream I crave —

No tears have I to fall, as yonder rain,

Yet, still the Mistress in my heart is pain; To nature, Ah! my soul it s answer makes,

As wan the summer passes to its grave.

ALFRED LAMBOURNE.