CAN aught be more magnificent than Spring? Mountain and mead, and foliage and flower, Assume a bridal look, as if the Sun Had solemnized his nuptials with the Earth. A green and growing grandeur consecrates The general land, like an anointed Queen; The soil begins to quicken with the birth, And bounteously proseminates its gifts; A glory reigns supreme o'er all, a Balm That moves, like Inspiration, in the soul, And gives a motive to each quiet thought, Stirring, in transport, like a little bird. Creation seems a path to brighter worlds-- A track to better homes. A permeant good Pervades the Universe, and all is joy. The river runs, like one of nimble foot, And smiling aspect, to embrace the sea, Henceforth incorporate; even as the youth, Of fervent spirit and of sanguine hope, Comes from his home obscure, and wanders forth To mingle with the world, and there is lost. The ruminating Ocean is at peace, And its faint murmur--for its voice is ne'er All silent--like a half forgotten tone Seems but the echo of a broken chime, As if a part of memory, pilgrim-like, Had gone in quest of all, and died away Amid the distant traces of the past. The gentle breeze comes from its groves of spice, And fragrance bears throughout the Virgin air; And hark! the woodland music--warblings soft Steal on the gladdened ear--from every hedge, From every forest dim, a voice proceeds Of deep-felt rapture, praise and gratitude. The swan disports upon the quiet lake, And shares the cheerfulness that all enjoy; While thoughts, without a voice, of Heaven remote In the still waters mirrored, stir its breast.-- All circumstance of language is too faint The beautiful of Nature to pourtray; The eloquent sense, the feeling sensitive, Alone holds free communion with her charms: While thought awakes, like day-dawn, and goes forth To gather stores of knowledge;--like a draught Of the pure fountain to the unrefreshed, The bloom of Spring exhilarates the mind, And gives a tone to virtue--its approach Is as the coming of sweet health to one Long time afflicted, for its bloom is blest.
ITS sweetest song the cygnet sings As a soft prelude to its death, And in that song expends its breath;-- What boots it that the Poet flings His wildest notes on high, Or strikes with truest hand the strings, If all his strains must die? And why should he his notes prolong, If no one listens to his song?