May. 47 
But, lo ! the desert streams are rolled 
O’er precious beds of virgin gold. 
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given, 
As countless as the stars of Heaven ! 
If music—’tis no feeble note 
She bids along the valley float; 
Ten thousand nameless melodies, 
In one full chorus, swell the breeze. 
Oh, Art is but a scanty rill, 
That genial seasons scarcely fill, 
But Nature needs no tides’ return 
To fill afresh her flowing urn ; 
She gathers all her rich supplies 
Where never-failing fountains rise. 
A nun. 
MAY. 
Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor’s sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 
And I again am strong ; 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep, 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
