ELIZA.
Saco, Maine.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO SPRING.1
| Not since the world's first blushing Spring Hath warmer, truer offering Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid, Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid. May-flower, the first in Flora's band, I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand, And help'd the little Daisy shake From her bright head the light snow-flake; I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread The first tint on the Violet's head, And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face— But more I love thee for thy promise bright, That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night. |
ELIZA.
Saco, Maine.
1 On the warm banks of the James, this Apostrophe to Spring may probably appear altogether too late for the season, but on the banks of the Saco, where a good fire is still necessary to comfort, and the May-flower, the most daring of our wild flowers, is just putting forth its blossom in token of approaching Spring, it is quite early enough.