Spring.
This open day may be devoted to the contemplation of appearances and products of the season, presented to us by ministering bards: the first to be ushered in, is an offering from a hand whence nothing can be proffered that will not be especially acceptable.
For the Every-Day Book
The Blackthorn.
The April air is shrewd and keen;
No leaf has dared unfold,
Yet thy white blossom’s radiant sheen,
Spring’s banner, I behold.
Though all beside be dead and drear,
Undauntedly thy flowers appear.
Thou com’st the herald of a host
Of blooms which will not fail,
When summer from some southern coast
Shall call the nightingale.
Yet early, fair, rejoicing tree,
Sad are the thoughts inspired by thee.
All other trees are wont to wear,
First leaves, then flowers, and last,
Their burden of rich fruit to bear
When summer’s pride is past:
But thou,—so prompt thy flowers to show,
Bear’st but the harsh, unwelcome sloe.
So oft young genius, at its birth,
In confidence untried,
Spreads its bright blossoms o’er the earth,
And revels in its pride;
But when we look its fruit to see,
It stands a fair, but barren tree.
So oft, in stern and barbarous lands,
The bard is heard to sing,
Ere the uncultured soul expands,
In the poetic spring;
Then, sad and bootless are his pains,
And linked with woe his name remains.
Therefore, thou tree whose early bough
All blossomed meets the gale,
Thou stirrest in my memory now
Full many a tearful tale:
And early, fair, rejoicing tree,
Sad are the thoughts inspired by thee.