Oft will the panther's sharp, shrill shriek With the herd's quiet lowings swell, The wolf's fierce howl terrific break Upon the sheepfold's bell.
The ploughman sees the wind-winged deer Dart from his covert to the wave, And fearless in its mirror clear His branching antlers lave.
Here, the green headlands seem to meet So near, a fairy bridge might cross; There, spreads the broad and limpid sheet In smooth, unruffled gloss.
Arched by the thicket's screening leaves, A lilied harbour lurks below, Where on the sand each ripple weaves Its melting wreath of snow.
Hark! like an organ's tone, the woods To the light wind in murmurs wake, The voice of the vast solitudes Is speaking to the lake.
The fanning air-breath sweeps across On its broad path of sparkles now. Bends down the violet to the moss, Then melts upon my brow.
SONG OF SPRING-TIME.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Where dost thou loiter, Spring, While it behoveth Thee to cease wandering Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth.