The Treasury Of Sacred Song

The season-measured year I view'd,

All, garb'd in fairy guise,

Pledged constancy of good.

Spring sang of heaven; the summer flowers

Bade me gaze on, and did not fade;

Ev'n suns o'er autumn's bowers

Heard my strong wish, and stay'd.

They came and went, the short-lived four;

Yet, as their varying dance they wove,

To my young heart each bore

Its own sure claim of love.

Far different now; -- the whirling year

Vainly my dizzy eyes pursue;

And its fair tints appear

All blent in one dusk hue.

Then what this world to thee, my heart?

Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless.

Thou hast no owner's part

In all its fleetingness.

The flame, the storm, the quaking ground,

Earth's joy, earth's terror, nought is thine;

Thou must but hear the sound

Of the still Voice Divine.