THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING

THE year 's at the spring

And day 's at the morn;
Morning's at seven ;

The hill-side 's dew-pearled;
The lark 's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn :
God 's in His heaven

All 's right with the world!

ROBERT BROWNING (Pippa Passes).

EARLY SPRING

ONCE more the Heavenly Power
Makes all things new,

And domes the red-plow'd hills

With loving blue;

The blackbirds have their wills,

The throstles too.

Opens a door in heaven;

From skies of glass
A Jacob's ladder falls

On greening grass,

And o'er the mountain-walls

Young angels pass.

Before them fleets the shower,

And burst the buds,

And shine the level lands,

And flash the floods;

The stars are from their hands
Flung thro' the woods,—

The woods with living airs

How softly fann'd,

Light airs from where the deep,
All down the sand,

Is breathing in his sleep,

Heard by the land.

Oh, follow, leaping blood,

The season's lure!

O heart, look down and up,

Serene, secure,

Warm as the crocus cup,

Like snowdrops pure!

Он, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England -
now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower

- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING.

NATURE IN SPRING
WHO can paint

Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?
Or can it mix them with that matchless skill
And lose them in each other, as appears
In every bud that blows? If fancy then,
Unequal, fails beneath the pleasing task,

Ah, what shall language do ? Ah, where find words
Tinged with so many colors; and whose power,
To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,

That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet though successless, will the toil delight. Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love;

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!
Formed by the Graces, loveliness itself!

Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul;
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mixed,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
O, come! and while the rosy-footed May
Steals blushing on, together let us tread
The morning dews, and gather in their prime
Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,
And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets.
JAMES THOMSON (Spring).

SPRING IN CAROLINA

SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,

Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,
Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns

Into a royal court with green
The banks of dark lagoons.

festoons

In the deep heart of every forest tree

The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand

Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the lawn,
Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find

That age to childhood bind,

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn,

The brown of autumn corn.

As yet the turf is dark, although you know

That, not a span below,

A thousand germs are groping through the gloom,
And soon will burst their tomb.

In gardens you may note amid the dearth,

The crocus breaking earth ;

And near the snowdrop's tender white and green,
The violet in its screen.

But many gleams and shadows needs must pass
Along the budding grass,

And weeks go by, before the enamored South
Shall kiss the rose's mouth.

Still there's a sense of blossoms yet unborn
In the sweet airs of morn;

One almost looks to see the very street

Grow purple at his feet.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await

Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start, If from a beech's heart

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,

"Behold me! I am May!"

HENRY TIMROD.

JUNE

I GAZED upon the glorious sky,
And the green mountains round,
And thought that when I came to lie
At rest within the ground,

'T were pleasant that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,

The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clods above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat-

Away! I will not think of these ;
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,
And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.

There, through the long, long summer hours
The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell
His love-tale close beside my cell;
The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard
The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know that I no more should see

The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,
Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go;

Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,

And speak of one who cannot share
The gladness of the scene;

Whose part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills

Is that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.