TO THE SPRING.

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;

Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide

Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.

Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth

Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,

Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,

A thousand germs of light and beauty come.

Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap

From their bright winter-woven fetters free;

Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,

And greet thee with a gush of melody.

The air is full of music, wild and sweet,

Made by the joyous waving of the trees,

Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,

And by the work-song of the early bees,

In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,

And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;

Hail to thee! maiden, with the bright blue eyes!

And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;

Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,

Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.