SUMMER. 183 
Then the mountains, how fair! to the blue 
vault of heaven 
Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking 
the light, 
While adown their deep chasms, all splintered 
and riven, 
Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white ! 
And where are the flowers that in beauty are 
glowing 
In the garden and fields of the young, merry 
spring, 
Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow 
broom blowing, 
And the old forest pride, the red wastes of 
the ling ? 
Then the garden, no longer ’tis leafless and 
chilly, 
But warm with the sunshine and bright with 
the sheen 
