SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. 23 Peasants must weep, And kings endure; That is a fate that none can cure! She weaves the sweet flowers, 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, For thou to northern lands again And in thy reign of blast and storm, 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 Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, When the wide bloom on earth that lies, 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 In music to the skies, and there are lost, 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, That Love never fades, though violets die! |