SUMMER ON THE DESERT. 267 



SUMMER ON THE GREAT AMERICAN DESERT. 



Ye dreary plains, that round me lie, 



So parch'd with summer's heat, 

 No more ye please my vvand'ring eye, 

 Or woo my weary feet. 



Why hath the spring your beauty borne 



Into his hiding place, 

 And left tlie widow'd winds to mourn 



The charms they would embrace ? 



Why should those flowers, whose honey'd breath 



With incense tilled the breeze, 

 Drooping and wither'd, lie in death. 



And now no longer please ? 



That grassy carpet, green and wide, 



Why turn'd to stubble now ? 

 Save 'chance along some streamlet's side, 



Where less'ning waters flow ! 



And why those gently murm'ring rills, 



Whose soft melodious strains 

 Were wont to echo 'mong the hills, 



No longer reach the plains ? 



The lark no longer meets the morn, — 



Nor linnet pours his throat, — 

 Nor feather'd warbler hails the dawn 



With his sweet, mellow note ; — 



Nor even insect cheers the scene, 



Where Solitude alone. 

 In wither'd garb, as Desert Queen, 



Rears her eternal throne ! 



These thirsty plains, with open mouth. 



Implore the gentle shower ; 

 But vainly plead, while summer's drouth 



In schorcliing heat doth pour ! 



Nor grateful shade, of spreadmg tree. 



Invites my feet to rest ; 

 Nor cooling stream, in melody, 



Attempts my quicken'd zest. 



So dismal all ! why should I stay, 



And sicken by their view ? 

 Thrice giadly will I turn away, 



And bid these scenes adieu ! 



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