For me, I depart to a brighter shore;
Ye are marked by care-ye are mine no more.
I go where the loved who have left you dwell,
And the flowers are not death's; fare ye well, farewell!
HE glad birds are singing,
The gay flowerets springing,
O'er meadow and mountain, and down in the vale; The green leaves are bursting;
To bask in the sunbeams, and breathe the fresh gale.
Sweet season, appealing
To fancy and feeling,
Be thy advent the emblem of all I would crave,
Of light more than vernal,
That day-spring eternal
Which shall dawn on the dark wintry night of the grave!
HE bleak winds of winter are past,
The frost and the snow are both gone;
And the trees are beginning at last,
To put their green leafiness on.
The snowdrop, like ivory white;
The crocus, as yellow as gold;
The hepatica, hardy and bright,
Have ventured their bloom to unfold.
And, sweeter than these, in the lane,
On its warm, sheltered bank may be found,
The violets in blossom again,
Shedding spring's richest odours around.
The primrose and cowslip are out,
And the fields are with daisies all gay;
While the butterflies, flitting about,
Seem glad in the sunshine to play.
Not more glad than the bee is to gather
New honey to store in his cell
He, too, is abroad this fine weather,
To rifle cup, blossom, and bell.
The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush,
Are brimful of music and glee;
They have each got a nest in some bush,
And the rook has built his on a tree.
The lark's home is hid in the corn;
But he springs, from his low nest, on high, And warbles his welcome to morn,
Till he seems like a speck on the sky.
Oh! who would be sleeping in bed
When the skies with such melody ring,
And the bright earth beneath him is fed
With the beauty and fragrance of Spring?
Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,
Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn
Was by the low winds chanted in the sky;
And when thy feet descended on the earth,
Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers
By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,
To hail her blessed deliverer!-Ye fair trees,
How are ye changed and changing while I gaze!
It seems as if some gleam of verdant light
Fell on you from a rainbow: but it lives
Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour
Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet birds,
Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,
Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?
Yet are ye not
Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful
Than the young lambs, that from the valley side,
Send a soft bleating, like an infant's voice,
Half happy, half afraid; O blessed things!
At sight of this, your perfect innocence,
The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away
Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.
HAT wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute;
Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,
Even as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring!-the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,
When thy south wind hath pierced the whispering shade,
And happy murmurs, running through the grass,
Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters-they too hear thy call-
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep;
Amidst the hollows of the rocks their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem-yet each to thoughtful eye
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring?
The human heart with all its dreams and sighs
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art—
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much!-We know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet, roused by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,
Gush for the faces we no more shall see!
How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone;
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet-
Spring! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead!-why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track,
Hope to the world may look beyond the tombs?
Yes! gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there.
MRS. HEMANS.
SOME, gentle Spring, ethereal Mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veiled in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend!—
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts;
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shattered forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.—
Forth fly the tepid airs; and unconfined,
Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.
Joyous th' impatient husbandman perceives
Relenting nature, and his lusty steers
Drives from their stalls, to where the well-used plough Lies in the furrow, loosened from the frost.
There unrefusing, to the harnessed yoke
They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,
Cheered by the simple song and soaring lark.
Meanwhile, incumbent o'er the shining share
The master leans, removes th' obstructing clay,
Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe:
While through the neighbouring fields the sower stalks
With measured step, and liberal throws the grain
Into the faithful bosom of the ground:
The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.--
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace;
Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown,
And lavish stock, that scents the garden round:
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