HYMN TO SPRING

How beautiful the pastime of the Spring!

Lo! newly waking from her wintry dream,

She, like a smiling infant, timid plays

On the green margin of this sunny lake,

Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves

( If riplings rather known by sound than sight

May haply so be named ) that in the grass

Soon fade in murmuring mirth; now seeming proud

To venture round the edge of yon far point,

That from an eminence softly sinking down,

Doth from the wide and homeless waters shape

A scene of tender, delicate repose,

Fit haunt for thee, in thy first hours of joy,

Delightful Spring!— nor less an emblem fair,

Like thee, of beauty, innocence, and youth.

On such a day,‘ mid such a scene as this,

Methinks the poets who in lovely hymns

Have sung thy reign, sweet Power, and wished it long,

In their warm hearts conceived those eulogies,

That, lending to the world inanimate

A pulse and spirit of life, for aye preserve

The sanctity of Nature, and embalm

Her fleeting spectacles in memory's cell

In spite of time's mutations. Onwards roll

The circling seasons, and as each gives birth

To dreams peculiar, yea destructive oft

Of former feelings, in oblivion's shade

Sleep the fair visions of forgotten hours.

But Nature calls the poet to her aid,

And in his lays beholds her glory live

For ever. Thus, in winter's deepest gloom,

When all is dim before the outward eye,

Nor the ear catches one delightful sound,

They who have wander'd in their musing walks

With the great poets, in their spirits feel

No change on earth, but see the unalter'd woods

Laden with beauty, and inhale the song

Of birds, airs, echoes, and of vernal showers.

So hath it been with me, delightful Spring!

And now I hail thee as a friend who pays

An annual visit, yet whose image lives

From parting to return, and who is blest

Each time with blessings warmer than before.

Oh! gracious Power! for thy beloved approach

The expecting earth lay wrapt in kindling smiles,

Struggling with tears, and often overcome.

A blessing sent before thee from the heavens,

A balmy spirit breathing tenderness,

Prepared thy way, and all created things

Felt that the angel of delight was near.

Thou camest at last, and such a heavenly smile

Shone round thee, as beseem'd the eldest-born

Of Nature's guardian spirits. The great Sun,

Scattering the clouds with a resistless smile,

Came forth to do thee homage; a sweet hymn

Was by the low Winds chaunted in the sky;

And when thy feet descended on the earth,

Scarce could they move amid the clustering flowers

By Nature strewn o'er valley, hill, and field,

To hail her blest deliverer!— Ye fair Trees,

How are ye changed, and changing while I gaze!

It seems as if some gleam of verdant light

Fell on you from a rainbow; but it lives

Amid your tendrils, brightening every hour

Into a deeper radiance. Ye sweet Birds,

Were you asleep through all the wintry hours,

Beneath the waters, or in mossy caves?

There are,‘ tis said, birds that pursue the spring,

Where'er she flies, or else in death-like sleep

Abide her annual reign, when forth they come

With freshen'd plumage and enraptured song,

As ye do now, unwearied choristers,

Till the land ring with joy. Yet are ye not,

Sporting in tree and air, more beautiful

Than the young lambs, that from the valley-side

Send a soft bleating like an infant's voice,

Half happy, half afraid! O blessed things!

At sight of this your perfect innocence,

The sterner thoughts of manhood melt away

Into a mood as mild as woman's dreams.

The strife of working intellect, the stir

Of hopes ambitious; the disturbing sound

Of fame, and all that worshipp'd pageantry

That ardent spirits burn, for in their pride,

Fly like disparting clouds, and leave the soul

Pure and serene as the blue depths of heaven.

Now, is the time in some meek solitude

To hold communion with those innocent thoughts

That bless'd our earlier days;— to list the voice

Of Conscience murmuring from her inmost shrine,

And learn if still she sing the quiet tune

That fill'd the ear of youth. If then we feel,

That‘ mid the powers, the passions, and desires

Of riper age, we still have kept our hearts

Free from pollution, and‘ mid tempting scenes

Walk'd on with pure and unreproved steps,

Fearless of guilt, as if we knew it not;

Ah me! with what a new sublimity

Will the green hills lift up their sunny heads,

Ourselves as stately: Smiling will we gaze

On the clouds whose happy home is in the heavens;

Nor envy the clear streamlet that pursues

His course‘ mid flowers and music to the sea.

But dread the beauty of a vernal day,

Thou trembler before memory! To the saint

What sight so lovely as the angel form

That smiles upon his sleep! The sinner veils

His face ashamed,— unable to endure

The upbraiding silence of the seraph's eyes!—

Yet awful must it be, even to the best

And wisest man, when he beholds the sun

Prepared once more to run his annual round

Of glory and of love, and thinks that God

To him, though sojourning in earthly shades,

Hath also given an orbit, whence his light

May glad the nations, or at least diffuse

Peace and contentment over those he loves!

His soul expanded by the breath of Spring,

With holy confidence the thoughtful man

Renews his vows to virtue,— vows that bind

To purest motives and most useful deeds.

Thus solemnly doth pass the vernal day,

In abstinence severe from worldly thoughts;

Lofty disdainings of all trivial joys

Or sorrows; meditations long and deep

On objects fit for the immortal love

Of souls immortal; weeping penitence

For duties ( plain though highest duties be )

Despised or violated; humblest vows,

Though humble strong as death, henceforth to walk

Elate in innocence; and, holier still,

Warm gushings of his spirit unto God

For all his past existence, whether bright,

As the spring landscape sleeping in the sun,

Or dim and desolate like a wintry sea

Stormy and boding storms! Oh! such will be

Frequent and long his musings, till he feels

As all the stir subsides, like busy day

Soft-melting into eve's tranquillity,

How blest is peace when born within the soul.

And therefore do I sing these pensive hymns,

O Spring! to thee, though thou by some art call'd

Parent of mirth and rapture, worshipp'd best

With festive dances and a choral song.

No melancholy man am I, sweet Spring!

Who, filling all things with his own poor griefs,

Sees nought but sadness in the character

Of universal Nature, and who weaves

Most doleful ditties in the midst of joy.

Yet knowing something, dimly though it be,

And therefore still more awful, of that strange

And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man,

It chanceth oft, that mix'd with Nature's smiles

My soul beholds a solemn quietness

That almost looks like grief, as if on earth

There were no perfect joy, and happiness

Still trembled on the brink of misery!

Yea! mournful thoughts like these even now arise,

While Spring, like Nature's smiling infancy,

Sports round me, and all images of peace

Seem native to this earth, nor other home

Desire or know. Yet doth a mystic chain

Link in our hearts foreboding fears of death

With every loveliest thing that seems to us

Most deeply fraught with life. Is there a child

More beauteous than its playmates, even more pure

Than they? while gazing on its face, we think

That one so fair most surely soon will die!

Such are the fears now beating at my heart.

Ere long, sweet Spring! amid forgotten things

Thou and thy smiles must sleep: thy little lambs

Dead, or their nature changed; thy hymning birds

Mute;— faded every flower so beautiful;—

And all fair symptoms of incipient life

To fulness swollen, or sunk into decay!

Such are the melancholy dreams that filled

In the elder time the songs of tenderest bards,

Whene'er they named the Spring. Thence, doubts and fears

Of what might be the final doom of man;

Till all things spoke to their perplexed souls

The language of despair; and, mournful sight!

Even hope lay prostrate upon beauty's grave!—

Vain fears of death! breath'd forth in deathless lays!

O foolish bards, immortal in your works,

Yet trustless of your immortality!

Not now are they whom Nature calls her bards

Thus daunted by the image of decay.

They have their tears, and oft they shed them too,

By reason unreproach'd; but on the pale

Cold cheek of death, they see a spirit smile,

Bright and still brightening, even like thee, O Spring!

Stealing in beauty through the winter-snow!—

Season, beloved of Heaven! my hymn is closed!

And thou, sweet Lake! on whose retired banks

I have so long reposed, yet in the depth

Of meditation scarcely seen thy waves,

Farewell!— the voice of worship and of praise

Dies on my lips, yet shall my heart preserve

Inviolate the spirit whence it sprung!

Even as a harp, when some wild plaintive strain

Goes with the hand that touch'd it, still retains

The soul of music sleeping in its strings.