THE BRUSH SPARROW.

I.

ERE wild haws, looming in the glooms,

Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;

And in the whistling hollow there

The red-bud bends as brown and bare

As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm;

From some slick hickory or larch,

Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March,

The sad heart thrills and reddens warm

To hear thee braving the rough storm,

Frail courier of green-gathering powers,—

Rebelling sap in trunks and flowers;

Love's minister come heralding;

O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers!—

Thou brown-red pursuivant of Spring!