TO ELLEN AT THE SOUTH

The green grass is bowing,

The morning wind is in it;

‘ T is a tune worth thy knowing,

Though it change every minute.

‘ T is a tune of the Spring;

Every year plays it over

To the robin on the wing,

And to the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand, thousand acres,

Goes light the nimble zephyr;

The Flowers — tiny sect of Shakers —

Worship him ever.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,—

Saying,‘ We have dressed for thee the ground,

Nor yet thou appearest.

‘ O hasten;’‘ t is our time,

Ere yet the red Summer

Scorch our delicate prime,

Loved of bee,— the tawny hummer.

‘ O pride of thy race!

Sad, in sooth, it were to ours,

If our brief tribe miss thy face,

We poor New England flowers.

‘ Fairest, choose the fairest members

Of our lithe society;

June's glories and September's

Show our love and piety.

‘ Thou shalt command us all,—

April's cowslip, summer's clover,

To the gentian in the fall,

Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.

‘ O come, then, quickly come!

We are budding, we are blowing;

And the wind that we perfume

Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.’