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Whose love was not like the rose's breath, Which wastes in the noontide fervour.
She comes—she comes with a beautiful band, To escort thee away to the blest!
Fly—fly, thou lone pilgrim, from this weary land— Go home to thy heavenly rest!
SUMMER HAS FLOWN.
Summer! sweet summer!—-art thou gone ? How have thy transient moments flown !
How have they flown to me ! These summer days have been so bright, So rich with rays of borrow'd light,
They could not fail to flee !
When I beheld thy mornings shine, Or saw thy radiant suns decline,
This youthful heart was bright With purest beams of joy and peace, Shed from the Sun of righteousness,
In gladd'ning streams of light.
Summer! "I saw thy brightest bloom, And revel'd in its sweet perfume—
But Sharon's Rose was mine; And as the fragrant flower I press'd With fervour to my glowing breast,
I felt its power divine.