A HERALD.

Ere the Spring comes near

O'er the smoking hills,

Stirring a million rills

To laughter low and clear

Till winds are hushed to hear,—

Ere the eaves at noon

Thaw and drip, there flies

A herald thro’ the skies

With promise of a boon —

Of birds and blossoms soon.

Subtle though it be,

Yet sweetly sure that word;

E'en such my heart hath heard

( Over life's frosty lea )

Of Immortality.