SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING.

23

Peasants must weep,

And kings endure;

That is a fate that none can cure!
Yet Spring does all she can, I trow:
She brings the bright hours,

She weaves the sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers,

For all below!

Oh, the Spring! the bountiful Spring!

She shineth and smileth on every thing!

March.

W. C. Bryant.

THE stormy March is come at last,

THE

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;

I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again
The glad and glorious sun doth bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train,
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

MARCH.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills,

Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;
But in thy sternest frown abides
A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,

When the wide bloom on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.

2

25

Flowers.

Barry Cornwall.

E have left behind us,

The riches of the meadows, and now come To visit the virgin primrose where she dwells, Midst harebells and the wild-wood hyacinths. Tis here she keeps her court. Dost see yon bank The sun is kissing? Near, go near! for there, ('Neath those broad leaves, amidst yon straggling grå Immaculate odors from the violet

Spring up for ever! Like sweet thoughts that come
Winged from the maiden fancy, and fly off

In music to the skies, and there are lost,
These ever-steaming odors seek the sun,
And fade in the light he scatters.

44

Come! let us go to the Land."

Barry Cornwall.

COME;-let us go to the land

Where the violets grow!

Let's go thither hand in hand,

Over the waters and over the snow,

To the land where the sweet, sweet violets blow!

There, in the beautiful south,

Where the sweet flowers lie,

Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth,
Under the light of the evening sky,

That Love never fades, though violets die!