The Lover

Gloomily the clouds are sailing
O'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing,
Not another sound is nigh.

Only I can hear it sweeping
Heath-clad hill and woodland dale;
And at times the night's sad weeping
Sounds above its dying wail.

Now the struggling moonbeams glimmer,
Now the shadows deeper fall,
Till the dim light waxing dimmer
Scarce reveals yon stately hall.

All beneath its roof are sleeping;
Such a silence reigns around,
I can hear the cold rain steeping
Dripping roof and plashy ground.

No! not all are wrapped in slumber:
At yon chamber window stands
One whose years are few in number,
Sorrow marks his claspéd hands.

From the open casement bending
He surveys the murky skies;
Dreary sighs his bosom rending,
Hot tears gushing from his eyes.

'Now that Autumn's charms are dying,
Summer's glories long since gone,
Faded leaves on damp earth lying,
Hoary Winter striding on—

'"Tis no marvel skies are lowering,
Winds are moaning thus around,
And cold rain with ceaseless pouring
Swells the stream and swamps the ground.'

But such wild, such bitter, grieving
Fits not slender boys like thee;
Those deep sighs should not be heaving
Breasts so young as thine must be.

Life with thee is only springing,
Summer in thy pathway lies;
Every day is nearer bringing
June's bright flowers and glowing skies.

Ah, he sees no brighter morrow!
He is not too young to prove
All the pain and all the sorrow
That attend the steps of love.