I am feeble, pale and weary

Wisdom, Power and Goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.

The Frost looked forth one still, clear night, And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height In silence I'll take my way."

Alone I walked on the ocean strand, A pearly shell was in my hand; I stooped, and wrote upon the sand My name, the year, the day. As onward from the sport I passed, One lingering look behind I cast,

Come out — pretty Rose-Bud, — my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun! For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!