Ballad—in Christmas Gambols

When I told you your cheeks wore the blush of the rose, That the spring was the type of your youth, That no lily a tint like your neck could disclose, I made love in the language of truth: Yet the loveliest rose, once the summer away, Of its bloom leaves no vestige behind; But your bloom, when the summer of life shall decay, Fresh as ever shall glow in your mind.

See the bee, as from flower to flower he roves, The sweets of the garden explore, And, in winter, to feast on the banquet he loves, Lay in his industrious store: So all your employment through life's busy day, Is the sweets drawn from goodness to find; Reason's feast to supply, and cheat winter away, From that source of perfection your mind.

And thus, as the seasons of life pass away, We enjoy every various scene; The spring all expanding, the summer all gay, The autumn all mild and serene: You are yet in yoar summer; but, when on your head, While from all admiration you find, Silver winter its honours shall sacredly shed, Still summer shall bloom in your mind.