The summer brook flows in the bed,
The winter torrent tore asunder;
The skylark's gentle wings are spread
Where walk the lightning and the thunder;
And thus you'll find the sternest soul
The gayest tenderness concealing,
And minds that seem to mock control,
Are ordered by some fairy feeling.
Then, maiden! start not from the hand
That's hardened by the swaying sabre--
The pulse beneath may be as bland
As evening after day of labour:
And, maiden! start not from the brow
That thought has knit, and passion darkened--
In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough,
The tenderest tales are often hearkened.
_Thomas Davis_