When meadow flowers allured the summer bees,
And silvery skies shone o'er the cloudless scene,
Bright as my thoughts when wand'ring to thy home;
Where Nature looks _as though she were divine_,
Not in the richness of the rip'ning vine,
Not in the splendour of imperial Rome.
It is a ruder scene of rocks and trees,
Where even barrenness is beauty--where
The glassy lake, below the mountain bare,
Curls up its waters 'neath the casual breeze;
And, 'midst the plenitude of flower and bud,
Sweet violets hide them in the hilly wood.

II.

I parted with thee one autumnal day,
When o'er the woods the northern tempest beat--
The spoils of autumn rustling at our feet,
And Nature wept to see her own decay.
The pliant poplar bent beneath the blast;
The moveless oak stood warring with the storm,
Which bow'd the pensive willow's weaker form;
And naught gave token that thy love would last,
Save the mute eloquence of forcing tears;
Save the low pleading of thy ardent sighs,
The fervent gazing of thy glowing eyes;
A firm assurance, spite of all my fears,
That, as the sunshine dries the summer rain,
Thy _future_ smile should bless for parting pain.