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154 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
0, wretched man, how frail thy boast!
Wert thou not form'd for nobler ends ? Arouse thee, ere forever lost!
The birds' thy wisdom now transcends!
Still and glassy lies the river
In its sultry light; Not a leaflet deigns to quiver
O'er its bosom bright.
Not a breath of air awakens'
In the hazy sky; And the brooklet is forsaken—
Tuneless, drear, and dry.
Summer noon, thy hours are weary
To the human heart; And, though all may seem more dreary
When the cold winds start;
Yet there's not this morbid weakness
Hanging o'er us then, For the heart can bear the bleakness
Of stern winter's reign.
Thoughts awake with the wild ringing
Of the stormy wind ; Tempest clouds are ever bringing
Freshness to the mind.