BY ED. SPRAGUE RAND.
Now with the whistling rush of stormy winds,
'Mid weeping skies and smiling, sunny hours,
Comes the young Spring, and scatters, from the pines,
O'er the brown—woodland soft, balsamic showers.
Wake, azure squirrel cups, on grassy hills!
Peep forth, blue violets, upon the heath!
The epigræa from the withered leaves
Sends out the greeting of her perfumed breath.
Nodding anemones within the wood