Do you love to walk at the blush of dawn,
Where the grim rock frowns o'er the joyous sea?
Do you love to ride o'er the dewy lawn,
Where the deer springs by in its reckless glee?
Or to view the hill ere its veil be drawn,
Enrobed in its cloudy drapery?

Do you love the fir-groves' sombre shade,
When noon her fiercest radiance flings;
And to drink the pleasant murmur made
By the young Zephyrs' purple wings?
Or on the brooklet's margin laid,
To watch its bright meanderings?

Do you love the hour of Nature's rest,
The sun-set of the summer day,
When each tiny cloud of the gorgeous west
Is melting in that sun's last ray;
And earth too looks her loveliest,
As anxious to persuade his stay?

And do you love, the best of all,
The deep and pulseless hush of night?
To list the voice of the waterfall,
That dimly glimmers into sight;
And to view the vast sky's shadowy pall,
Bedropped with all its gems of light?

Oh, lov'st thou these?— then earth to thee
Is not of all her joy bereft;
And whatsoe'er thy grief may be,
Her purest, holiest charm is left:
Thou still hast Nature's sympathy,
Though every other tie be cleft.

And be it so!— how merciful
Is the great Lord of earth and sky,
To leave us still such flowers to cull
From the dark fields of destiny!
Else life would prove a thing so full
Of pain—the wish might rise to die.

'Tis said—but whether true or not
  Let bards declare who've seen 'em—
That Love and Time have only got
  One pair of wings between 'em.
In Courtship's first delicious hour,
  The boy full oft can spare 'em;
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
  He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
    Then is Time's hour of play;
    Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,
  When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,
  Love takes his turn to-morrow.
Ah! Time and Love, your change is then
  The saddest and most trying,
When one begins to limp again,
  And t'other takes to flying.
    Then is Love's hour to stray;
    Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel,
  And bless the silken fetter,
Who knows, the dear one, how to deal
  With Love and Time much better.
So well she checks their wanderings,
  So peacefully she pairs 'em,
That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings,
  And Time for ever wears 'em.
    This is Time's holiday;
    Oh, how he flies, flies away!