SHINE down, fair sun, on vale and hill,
And light each height and hollow;—
No shade rests in the air, but still
On earth the shadows follow.
Grow green, old trees, where'er you may
Your festival be keeping;—
On branch and stem, on leaf and spray,
Decay is slowly creeping.
Bloom bright, fair flowers, in wild or mead,
Around you all perfuming;—
The blight that mingles with each seed,
The blossom is consuming.
Grow well, sweet fruit, on garden walls,
Or in hot-houses hasting;—
The sooner ripe, the sooner falls
Corruption with its wasting.
Flow on, calm river, still flow on
With ever constant motion;—
Soon shalt thou mingle, all unknown,
Forgotten in the Ocean.
Play up, sweet music, to the ear,
A merry note of gladness;—
The chords that lively stricken cheer,
Give also tones of sadness.
Shine bright, young Summer, o'er the earth,
And fill the land with laughter;—
Soon Autumn comes to mar thy mirth,
And winter follows after.
Burn high, fair hope, within the breast,
By pleasant things attended;—
Misdoubt and fear do still molest
Our life, till it is ended.
Fill slow, oh! Time, the rounded cup
Of numbered hours that's set us;
Soon shall our days be gathered up,
And even our own forget us.
Then shine, fair sun, on vale and hill,
On tower and town and meadow;—
'Tis Heaven that sends the brightness still,
Earth only gives the shadow.