Fremont Journal

For the Fremont Journal,
THE FLIGHT
OF THE
SEASONS.
By Ronald,
Spring comes to earth from fond mild and vernal,
Comes and finds it in a veil of white enshrouded;
With her breath she thaws the snow-banks,
Clears the ice from out the streamlets,
Bends the rabbit to the forest,
Changes the dark robe of Croaton,
To a brighter and a greener;
Scatters over all the meadows,
Bright, fresh flowers of every hue.
Some are bright, and others darker,
Yea, they are of every color;
Some are like the sky at sunset,
Some are painted like the rain-bow,
Some are like the stars at midnight:
They bloom on mountains, and in valley,
By the roadside, and the by-path,
And the groups of happy children,
As they merrily them do gather,
Think the angels them do scatter;
And they listen for their voices-
And they listen, listened, listen,
Till they think they hear them whisper;
But although they never hear them,
Yet they say they are the whispering
Of the angels,—not afar off!
And the flowers they say, are letters,
Letters of the little angels—
Though they seldom come to read them,
For their homes are high in Heaven,
Once they came, 'twas when the spring died,
Then the flowers they came to gather;
These they said their Father needed—
Needed them, to sprinkle o'er the white throne
And the golden streets of Heaven,
Then Summer comes, with pleasant voices
And with merry laughing zephyrs—
And with limpid gurgling streamlets;
With her smiles she woos the angels,
Makes them leave some flowers behind them,
And when they are just departing,
Fans their brows with gentle breezes,
Tosses her happy hair in triumph,
As she sees the angels going,—
Going to their home in Heaven,
With white roses-scattered o'er them,
Tuning their harps to streamlets' music,
To the birds in wavy branches—
Way up on the highest branches.
And the roaring of Old Ocean,
Always roaring, never resting:
Howling o'er the graves of those
Who are sleeping 'neath its waters,
Who have perished, who have gone down,
Gone to the land of ghosts and shadows.
Then comes melancholy Autumn,
Comes with sad and mournful whispering,
Mourning for departed Summer.
Though 'tis sad yet it is lovely—
For she brings the golden harvest,
And bright fields of waving grain,
Waving, beckoning, like to loving sisters:
And the woods are changed to crimson,
To bright crimson, and bright yellow,
And the boughs are heavy laden,
And the broad shells they are bursting,
Changed to the dress of fairest children,
Changed to lighter, and to warmer,—
And while men their harvests gather,
They are busy with their harvests;
Thankful for their Father's kindness.
Who was it that taught them, learned them,
Thus to gather in their stores?
Was it the God of chance?
No-it was the God of Nature,
'Twas the God we see in all things.
All the air is heavy laden
With the laughter of earth's children-
Of her many happy children;
And the streams are gaily singing,
Always singing, never ceasing,
Ever till, and ever free!
And the blue sky bends above them,
And reflects their sparkling faces
In its clear, unclouded blueness,
All reflected, but the murmurings,
But the whisperings of the streamlets;
And their lispings are so low,
That not often you can hear them;
Though by listening, you can sometimes
Hear them talking, talking, talking,
And they always speak in this way—
"I am going on to join my sisters,
Cherished sisters, gone before,"
And the red leaves they are dropping,
Dropping off from all the branches,
Twirling from the highest branches;
And when they are slowly falling,
They do whisper dying, dying;
Though my home now is in this world,
Never go I to a higher.
And the flowers, too, they are passing,
Quickly passing, like a dream of light, and love,
Like bright thoughts of happy childhood,
Passing, passing, to the dim oblivious shore,
Passing to that far mysterious shore:
And birds of passage hover near us,
Hover o'er us, hover round us,
Singing mournfully, their last songs,
Singing plaintively, their farewells.
Thus all is changing—but the streamlet,
But the happy, laughing streamlet,—
Flowing on, still warbling always,
Bounding like distant fairy music,
Like the music which we dream of:
Like the voices of the angels!
All is passing, surely passing
To its long home, to its dark home,
Fleeting, filling like the sunshine:
Nature's beating pulse is ceasing,
For her life blood it is waning,
The bloom upon her cheek is waning,
She is dying, she is slumbering,—
Eternally slumbering, till the voice of Spring shall call her,
Till the flowers her breath shall welcome.
Like the passing flowers of spring-time,
Like the shadow of the noonday,
Like the falling of the sear leaves,
In the declining life of man;
Though in childhood he is happy,
Yet with years there cometh sorrow,
And his heart it groweth sadder.
Year after year the works of nature
Die, and dreamless are their slumbers,
And the West Wind sings a requiem
Through the dead leaves sings a requiem!
Youth is always bright and joyous,
And is like the bird in spring-time;
Manhood it is like the blossom,
Though it looketh bright and pleasant
Yet do dark clouds o'er it gather.
And old age is like the brown leaf,
Like the withered leaf in Autumn,
And dieth and goeth to his home,
To his last home, to his long home:
Leaves his friends and home behind him,
Goeth where the whispering angels call him,
And God soundeth the heavenly trumpet,
Soundeth the trumpet which shall call us,
From this dark world to a brighter
Goeth where the sun in God's sight
And the stars are the lamps of the angels