THE

POETRY OF SPRING.

THE POETRY OF SPRING.

SPRING.

I COME! I come! ye have called me long-
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnutflowers

By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ;-

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky; From the night bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,

When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the

chain;

They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves!

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.