THE LAY OF THE WIND.

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BY LILIAS.

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I rove at my pleasure, all gayly and free,

O’er the wide spreading land and the loud roaring sea,

I’m at home ’mid the bright sunny bowers of the South,

And at home on the wild frozen wastes of the North;

While I whisper sweet things to the flowers in their bloom,

And breathe a sad strain round the aisle and the tomb.

When Winter all sternly comes forth from his cave,

To still the glad streamlet and fetter the wave,

I howl, as the tempest sweeps by in its wrath,

Or scatter the snow from the icy king’s path,

And chant, in the midnight all lonely and still,

A dirge for the fallen, by valley and hill.

And Spring, lovely maiden! Oh what would she be

Without her mild breezes on land and on sea?

And what would awaken the sweet-scented flowers

To burst in their beauty in lone forest bowers?

Did I not bend o’er them and joyfully sing—

“A loved one is coming, the maiden is Spring.”

Gay Summer, bright Summer, all joyous and fair,

Gives life to the desert, perfume to the air,

But the rays of her sun are too scorching and bright,

The lovely flowers languish and droop ere the night:

Then stealing at twilight from out my lone cave,

I wander along o’er the cool starry wave,

To fan Flora’s gems with my magical wing,

And low, while the dew-drops are falling, to sing.

Then hie me away to a child in its dreams,

And whisper of fountains and cool running streams.

When Autumn steals on, clad in purple and gold,

The mountains and woods in his robe to enfold,

And flowers, as they gaze on the dull, paling sky,

Grow weary of life and so bow them to die;

When forest-leaves gently are falling to earth,

And gay singing waters forgetting their mirth,

O’er vale and o’er upland I breathe a sad lay,

For the fair and the lovely all passing away.

My hours are ne’er stolen by sorrow or sleep,

When weary of forests I fly to the deep;

My course is to-day amid sunshine and bloom,

To-morrow, it may be with tempests and gloom;

But though I ne’er linger, I’m joyous and free,

If sighing ’mid blossoms, or sweeping the sea,

For my way is right on through the long-coming years,

And I turn not aside for your hopes or your fears.