But, alas for us, no more
Shall the coming hour rescore
The glory, sweet and wonted, of the seasons to our souls;
Even as the Spring appears,
Her smiling makes our tears,
While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.
Even as our zephyrs sing
That they bring us in the Spring,
Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight--
We see the serpent crawl,
With his slimy coat o'er all,
And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.
We shudder at the blooms,
Which but serve to cover tombs--
At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath;
Sad shapes look out from trees,
And in sky and earth and breeze,
We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!
South Carolinian.
Spring.
By Henry Timrod.
Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.
Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.
In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,
And there's a look about the leafless bowers
As if they dreamed of flowers.
Yet still on every side appears the hand
Of Winter in the land,
Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;