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The rivers ran low through the failure of
snow, Yet their banks it seemed never stood
firmer; But they longed for the rains which the
spring should bestow, That again they might babble and murmur,
And the Queen of the Season, so ill did
she feel, She again took to bed in pure sorrow:: But the sun has been called in, her sickness
to heal, And we hope she'll be better to morrow.
ADDRESS TO SPRING.
Ou! gracious powerl for thy beloved approach
The strife of working intellect, the stir
DESCRIPTION OF SPRING. While on the elm-tree, overshadlowing deep
The low-roofed cottage white, the blackbird ANON.
sits, Oh! bow delightful to the soul of man, Cheerfully hymning the awakened year. How like a renovating spirit, comes, Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Turn to the OCEAN, how the scene is SPRING!
changed ! Morning awakens in the orient sky Behold the small waves melt upon the shore With purpler light beneath a canopy
With chastened murmur! Buoyantly on high, Of lovely clouds, their edges tipp'd with The sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance, gold ;
And turning to the sun their snowy plomes. And from his palace, like a deity,
With shrilly pipe, from headland or from Darting his lustrous eyes from pole to pole, cape, The glorious Sun comes forth the vernal Emerge the line of plovers, o'er the sands sky
Fast sweeping; while to inland marsh the To walk rejoicing. To the bitter North
hern Retire wild Winter's forces,-cruel winds,- With undulating wing scarce visible, And griping frosts,--and magazines of snow, Far up the azure concave journies on ! And deluging tempests. O'er the moistened | Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurled, fields
Tardily glides along the fisher's boat, A tender green is spread; the bladed grass Its shadow moving o'er the moveless tide, Shoots forth exuberant; th’awakening trees, The bright wave flashes from the rower's oar Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forth Glittering in the sun, at measured intervals: Expanding buds; while with mellifluou And, casually borne, the fisher's voice throat,
Floats solemnly along the watery waste; The warm ebullience of internal joy, The shepherd boy, enveloped in his plaid, The birds put forth a song of gratitude On the green bank, with blooming furze To Him who sheltered, when the storms o'er-topped, were deep,
Listens and answers with responsive note. And fed them through the winter's cheerless
A SPRING THOUGHT.
Beside the garden path, the crocus now
The glad birds are singing,
The gay flow'rets springing
The green leaves are barsting;
While every sigh that Zephyr beaves, My spirit is thirsting
Sprinkles the dew-drops round my head. To bask in the sun-beams, and breathe the fresh gale.
The yellow moss in scaly rings,
Creeps round the hawthorn's prickly bough: Sweet season appealing
The speckled linnet pecks and sings, To fancy and feeling;
While snowy blossoms round her blow. Be thy advent the emblem of all I would crave,
The gales sing softly through the trees, Or light more than vernal,
Whose boughs in green waves heave and The day-spring eternal
swell; Which shall dawu on the dark wintry-night The azare violet scents the breeze of the grave.
Which shakes the yellow crow-luot's bell.
'Tis summer, 'tis summer, the wild birds are singing,
The skies are all glowing with crimson and gold,
'Tis summer, 'tis summer,--aud winter no more