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A Song.

Aye, smile—as autumn sunlight smiles
On withered leaves:
Thy golden glance no more beguiles,
My withered heart no longer grieves
To watch its gleam grow cold and fade,
Though once such gloom seemed darkest shade.

Aye, weep,—as thunder-showers weep,
O'er blasted tree:
The wrong is done, and thou wouldst steep
In tears the wound I owe to thee!
The tree stands black beneath the rain:
Tears cannot give me hope again.

Aye, go,—as dreams of heaven go,
When breaks the dawn:
Though sternly frowns this world of woe
When sleep's gay veil aside is drawn;
To work is nobler than to dream,—
Traitress, I hail the wak'ning beam!