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! SPRING. MRS. HEMANS. HE glad birds are singing, The gay flowerets springing, O'er meadow and mountain, and down in the vale; The green leaves are bursting; My spirit is thirsting 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! SPRING. BARTON. 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; Not more glad than the bee is to gather The goldfinch, and blackbird, and thrush, They have each got a nest in some bush, 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 And the bright earth beneath him is fed BARTON. HE great sun, SPRING. Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile, 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 It seems as if some gleam of verdant light Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful Than the young lambs, that from the valley side, WILSON. SPRING. HAT wak'st thou, Spring? sweet voices in the woods, And the leaves greet thee, Spring!—the joyous leaves, When thy south wind hath pierced the whispering shade, Tell that thy footsteps pass. And the bright waters-they too hear thy call- Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray Their windings to the day. And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers! Silent they seem-yet each to thoughtful eye But what awak'st thou in the heart, O Spring? Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art— Too much, oh! there too much!-We know not well How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone; Looks of familiar love, that never more, Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back Breathed by our loved ones there. MRS. HEMANS. SPRING. SOME, gentle Spring, ethereal Mildness, come, While music wakes around, veiled in a shower Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts; The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.-- 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, The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene. — The yellow wall-flower, stained with iron brown, |