The Liberator

LITERARY.

THE SEASONS.

SPRING.

The soft green grass is growing,
O'er meadow and o'er dale;
The silvery founts are flowing
Upon the verdant vale;
The pale snow-drop is springing,
To greet the glowing sun;
The primrose sweet is flinging
Perfume the fields among;
The trees are in the blossom,
The birds are in their song;
As spring upon the bosom
Of nature's borne along.

So the dawn of human life
Doth green and verdant spring;
It doth little ween the strife
That after years will bring;
Like the snow-drop, it is fair,
And like the primrose sweet;
But its innocence can't scare
The blight from its retreat.

SUMMER.

The full ripe corn is bending
In waves of golden light;
The new-mown hay is sending
Its sweets upon the night;
The breeze is softly sighing,
To cool the parched flowers;
The rain, to see them dying,
Weeps forth its gentle showers;
The merry fish are playing
Adown yon crystal stream;
And night from day is straying,
As twilight gives its gleam.

And thus manhood in its prime,
Is full, and ripe, and strong,
And scarcely deems that time,
Can do its beauty wrong;
Like the merry fish we play,
Adown the stream of life;
And we reck not of the day
That gathers what is rife.

AUTUMN.

The flowers all are fading,
Their sweets are rifled now;
And night sends forth her shading,
Along the mountain brow;
The bee hath ceased its winging,
To flowers at early morn;
The birds have ceased their singing,
And silent wait the dawn;
The harvest now is gathered,
Protected from the clime;
The leaves are seared, and withered,
That late shone in their prime.

Thus when fourscore years are gone,
O'er the frail life of man,
Time sits heavy on his throne,
As near his brow we scan;
Like the Autumn leaf that falls
When winds the branches wave;
Like night shadows, day light palls;
Like all--he finds a grave.

WINTER.

The snow is on the mountain,
The frost is on the vale,
The ice hangs o'er the fountain,
The storm rides on the gale,
The earth is bared and naked,
The air is cold and drear.
The sky with snow-clouds flaked,
And dense foul fogs appear—
The sun shines not so brightly
Through the dark murky skies,
The nights grow longer nightly,
And thus the Winter dies.

Thus falls man, his season past,
The blight hath ta'en his bloom;
Summer gone, the Autumn blast
Consigns him to the tomb;
Then the Winter, cold and drear
With pestilential breath,
Blows upon his silent bier,
And whispers—This is Death!