From her the brooks and wandering rivulets fly;
At her approach their currents quickly dry;
Berries and every acid fruit she sips,
To allay the fervour of her parching lips;
Apples and melons, and the cherry's juice,
She loves, which orchards plenteously produce.
The sunburnt hay-makers, the swain who shears
The flocks, still hail the maid when she appears.
At her approach, O be it mine to lie
Where spreading beeches cooling shades supply;
Or with her let me rove at early morn,
When drops of pearly dew the grass adorn;.
Or, at soft twilight, when the flocks repose,
And the bright star of evening mildly glows.
Ye youths and maidens, if ye know, declare
The name and lineage of this blooming fair.
Who may he be that next, with sober pace,
Comes stealing on us? Sallow is his face;
The grape's red blood distains his robes around;
His temples with a wheaten sheaf are bound;
His hair hath just begun to fall away,
The auburn blending with the mournful gray.
The ripe brown nuts he scatters to the swain;
He winds the horn, and calls the hunter train:
The gun is heard; the trembling partridge bleeds:
The beauteous pheasant to his fate succeeds.
Who is he with the wheaten sheaf? Declare,
If ye can tell, ye youths and maidens fair.
Who is he from the north that speeds his way?
Thick furs and wool compose his warm array:
His cloak is closely folded; bald his head;
His beard of clear sharp icicles is made.
By blazing fire he loves to stretch his limbs;
With skait-bound feet the frozen lakes he skims.
When he is by, with breath so piercing cold,
No floweret dares its tender buds unfold.
Nought can his powerful freezing touch withstand;
And, should he smite you with his chilling hand,
Your stiffened form would on his snows be cast,
Or stand, like marble, pale and breathless as he passed
Ye youths and inaidens, does he yet appear?
Fast he approaches, and will soon be here.
Declare, I pray you, tell me, if ye can,
The name and lineage of this aged man.
THE stormy March is come at last,
With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou to northern lands again,
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.
Then sing aloud the gushing rills
And the full springs, from frost set free
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.
The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But, in thy sternest frown, abides
A look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.
WHEN the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-in of storms.
From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives:
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.
Comes through the pleasant woods, and coloured wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along
And when bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills.
And wide the upland glows.
And when the day is gone,
In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far,
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.
Sweet April, many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
I FEEL a newer life in every gale ;
The winds, that fan the flowers,
And with their welcome breathings fill the sail,
Tell of serener hours,
Of hours that glide unfelt away
Beneath the sky of May.
The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls
From his blue throne of air,
And where his whispering voice in music falls,
Beauty is budding there;
The bright ones of the valley break
Their slumbers, and awake.
The waving verdure rolls along the plain,
And the wide forest weaves,
To welcome back its playful mates again,
A canopy of leaves;
And, from its darkening shadow, floats
A gush of trembling notes.
Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May;
The tresses of the woods,
With the light dallying of the west-wind play ;
And the full-brimming floods,
As gladly to their goal they run,
Hail the returning sun.
The Voice of Spring.-MRS. HEM ANS
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 chesnut-flowers,
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 passed o'er 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 rein-deer bounds through the pasture free,
And the pine has a fringe of softer green,
And the moss looks bright where my step has been.
I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle 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-bough 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 on 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.
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly,
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay:
Come forth to the sunshine: I may not stay!
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men,
The waters are sparkling in wood and glen;
Away from the chamber and dusky hearth,
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth;
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains,
And youth is abroad in my green domains.
|