THE BRUSH SPARROW.

Ere wild haws, looming in the glooms,

Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms;

And in the whistling hollow there

The red-bud bends as brown and bare

As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm;

From some slick hickory or larch,

Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March,

The sad heart thrills and reddens warm

To hear thee braving the rough storm,

Frail courier of green-gathering powers,—

Rebelling sap in trunks and flowers;

Love's minister come heralding;

O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers!—

Thou brown-red pursuivant of Spring!

“Moan” sob the woodland cascades still

Down bloomless ledges of the hill;

And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang

In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang

Sharp beaks and talons of the wind:

Black scowl the forests, and unkind

The far fields as the near; while song

Seems murdered and all passion, wrong.

One wild frog only in the thaw

Of spawny pools wakes cold and raw,

Expires a melancholy bass

And stops as if bewildered; then

Along the frowning wood again,

Flung in the thin wind's fangy face,

Thou, in red, woolly tassels proud

Of bannered maples, flutest loud:

“Her Grace! her Grace! her Grace!”

“Her Grace! her Grace! her Grace!”

Climbs beautiful and sunny-browed

Up, up the kindling hills and wakes

Blue berries in the berry brakes;

With fragrant flakes, that blow and bleach,

Deep powders smothered quince and peach;

Eyes dogwoods with a thousand eyes;

Teaches each sod how to be wise

With twenty wild-flowers for one weed;

And kisses germs that they may seed.

In purest purple and sweet white

Treads up the happier hills of light;

Bloom, cloudy-borne, song in her hair,

Long dew-drops her pale fingers fair:

Big wind-retainers, and the rains

Her yeomen strong that flash the plains;

While scarlet mists at dawn,— and gold

At eve,— her panoply enfold.—

Her herald tabarded behold!—

Awake to greet! prepare to sing!

She comes, the darling Duchess, Spring!”