'Song of the Month. No. VIII.'
Of all the months in the twelve that fly
So lightly on, and noiselessly by,
There is not one who can show so fair
As this, with its soft and balmy air.
The light graceful corn waves to and fro,
Tinging the earth with its richest glow;
The forest trees in their state and might
Proclaim that Summer is at his height.
Of all the months in the twelve that speed
So quickly by, with so little heed
From man, of the years that swiftly pass
As an infant’s breath from a polished glass,
There is not one whose fading away
Bears such a lesson to mortal clay,
Warning us sternly, when in our prime,
To look for the withering winter time.
I stood by a young girl’s grave last night,
Beautiful, innocent, pure, and bright,
Who, in the bloom of her summer’s pride,
And all its loveliness, drooped and died.
Since the sweetest flow’rs are soonest dust,
As truest metal is quick to rust,
Look for a change in that time of year,
When Nature’s works at their best appear.