SPIRIT OF THE SPRING.
The spirit of the shower,
Of the sunshine and the breeze,
Of the dewy twilight hour,
Of the bud and opening flower,
My soul delighted sees.
Stern winter's robe of gray,
Beneath thy balmy sigh,
Like mist-wreaths melt away,
When the rosy laughing day
Lifts up his golden eye.—
Spirit of ethereal birth,
Thy azure banner floats,
In lucid folds, o'er air and earth,
And budding woods pour forth their mirth
In rapture-breathing notes.
I see upon the fleecy cloud
The spreading of thy wings;
The hills and vales rejoice aloud,
And Nature, starting from her shroud,
To meet her bridegroom springs.
Spirit of the rainbow zone,
Of the fresh and breezy morn,—
Spirit of climes where joy alone
For ever hovers round thy throne,
On wings of light upborne,
Eternal youth is in thy train
With rapture-beaming eyes,
And Beauty, with her magic chain,
And Hope, that laughs at present pain,
Points up to cloudless skies.
Spirit of love, of life, and light!
Each year we hail thy birth—
The day-star from the grave of night
That set to rise in skies more bright,—
To bless the sons of earth
With leaf—and bud—and perfumed flower,
Still deck the barren sod;
In thee we trace a higher power,
In thee we claim a brighter dower,
The day-spring of our God!—
O COME TO THE MEADOWS.
O come to the meadows! I'll show you where
Primrose and violet blow,
And the hawthorn spreads its blossoms fair,
White as the driven snow.
I'll show you where the daisies dot
With silver stars the lea,
The orchis, and forget-me-not,
The flower of memory!
The gold-cup and the meadow-sweet,
That love the river's side,
The reed that bows the wave to meet,
And sighs above the tide.
The stately flag that gaily rears
Aloft its yellow crest,
The lily in whose cup the tears
Of morn delight to rest.
The first in Nature's dainty wreath,
We'll cull the brier-rose,
The crowfoot and the purple heath,
And pink that sweetly blows.
The hare-bell with its airy flowers
Shall deck my Laura's breast,—
Of all that bud in woodland bowers
I love the hare-bell best!
I'll pull the bonny golden broom
To bind thy flowing hair;
For thee the eglantine shall bloom,
Whose fragrance fills the air.
We'll sit beside yon wooded knoll,
To hear the blackbird sing,
And fancy in his merry troll
The joyous voice of spring!
We'll sit and watch the sparkling waves
That leap exulting by,
Whilst in the pines above us raves
The wind's wild minstrelsy.
It swells the echoes of the grove,
'Tis Nature's plaintive voice;
The winds and waters breathe of love,
And all her tribes rejoice.
Whilst youth, and hope, and health are ours,
We'll rove the verdant glade;
But ah! spring's sweetest, loveliest flowers,
Like us, but bloom to fade.
They spread their beauties to the sun,
And live their little day,
Then droop, and wither, one by one,
Till all are passed away.
Already scattered in the dust
My first May garland lies;
The hope that owns a mortal trust,
As quickly fades and dies.
Then let us seek a brighter wreath
Than Nature here has given;
The flowers of virtue bud beneath,
But only bloom in heaven!
THOU WILT THINK OF ME, LOVE.
When these eyes, long dimmed with weeping,
In the silent dust are sleeping;
When above my narrow bed
The breeze shall wave the thistle's head—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the queen of beams and showers
Comes to dress the earth with flowers;
When the days are long and bright,
And the moon shines all the night—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the tender corn is springing,
And the merry thrush is singing;
When the swallows come and go,
On light wings flitting to and fro—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
When laughing childhood learns by rote
The cuckoo's oft-repeated note;
When the meads are fresh and green,
And the hawthorn buds are seen—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
When 'neath April's rainbow skies
Violets ope their purple eyes;
When mossy bank and verdant mound
Sweet knots of primroses have crowned—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
When the meadows glitter white,
Like a sheet of silver light;
When blue bells gay and cowslips bloom,
Sweet-scented brier, and golden broom—
Thou wilt think of me, love!
Each bud shall be to thee a token
Of a fond heart reft and broken;
And the month of joy and gladness
Shall but fill thy soul with sadness—
And thou wilt sigh for me, love!
When thou rov'st the woodland bowers,
Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers,
And shalt strew with bitter weeping
The lonely bed where I am sleeping—
And sadly mourn for me, love!