THE sun in mists his glory shrouds,
The fields delight no more;
November's brow is dark with clouds,
The year's gay youth is o'er.
Lost is the verdure of the meads,
No tuneful warblings flow;
A long and dreary night succeeds
To noon's pale, transient glow.
Yet why lament the gloomy day,
Or Nature's long repose?
Again shall Spring's awakening ray
More beauteous tints disclose.
The vernal morn again shall gleam,
The drooping world to cheer;
The sun, with vivifying beam,
Renew th' empurpled year.
But if revolving Spring no more
Should bless our mortal eyes,
The soul that fears her God shall soar
Where suns more glorious rise.
Where night no more the veil of death
O'er day's bright scenes shall fling,
Nor Winter's rude, unwelcome breath,
E'er blast the charms of Spring.