THE east wind has whistled for many a day,
Sere and wintry, o'er summer's domain;
And the sun, muffled up in a dull robe of gray,
Look'd sullenly down on the plain.
The butterfly folded her wings as if dead,
Or awaked ere the full-destined time;
Every flower shrunk inward, or hung down its head,
Like a young heart, grief-struck in its prime.
I, too, shrunk and shiver'd, and eyed the cold earth,
The cold heavens, with comfortless looks;
And I listen'd in vain for the summer bird's mirth,
And the music of rain-plenish'd brooks.
But, lo! while I listen'd, down heavily dropt
A few tears from a low-sailing cloud:
Large and slow they descended, then thicken'dthen stopt
Then pour'd down abundant and loud.
Oh! the rapture of beauty, of sweetness, of sound, That succeeded that soft gracious rain!
With laughter and singing, the vallies rang round, And the little hills shouted again.
The wind sunk away, like a sleeping child's breath The pavilion of clouds was unfurl'd;
And the sun, like a spirit, triumphant o'er death, Smiled out on this beautiful world!
On this beautiful world !—such a change had been
By those few blessed drops. Oh! the same On some cold stony heart might be work'd, too,
Sunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame.
If a few virtuous tears, by the merciful shed,
Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead,
Might shoot up and flourish again.
And the smile of the virtuous, like sunshine from heaven,
Might chase the dark clouds of despair,
And remorse, when the rock's flinty surface was
Might gush out, and soften all there. [riven,
Oh! to work such a change-by God's grace to recall
A poor soul from the death-sleep to this!
To this joy that the angels partake, what were all
That the worldly and sensual call bliss?
BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.
BREATHINGS OF SPRING.
WHAT wak'st thou, spring?-sweet voices in the woods,
And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,
The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute, Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee, E'en as our hearts may be.
And when leaves greet thee, spring!-the joyous leaves,
Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade, Where each young spray a rosy flush receives, When thy south-wind bath pierced the whispering
And happy murmurs, running through the grass, Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters,-they, too, hear thy call,-
Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep;
Amidst the hollows of the rocks, their fall
Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
Where sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray
Their windings to the day.
And flowers-the fairy-peopled world of flowers!
Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Colouring the cowslip with the sunny hours,
And pencilling the wood-anemone;
Silent they seem-yet each, to thoughtful eye,
Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, O! spring?
The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,
Restorer of forgotten harmonies!
Fresh songs and scents break forth, where'er thou art
What wak'st thou in the heart?
Too much, oh! there too much!—we know not well
Wherefore it should be thus, yet, roused by thee,
What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep
cell,
Gush for the faces we no more shall see!
How are we haunted, in the wind's low tone,
By voices that are gone!
Looks of familiar love, that never more,
Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,
Past words of welcome to our household door,
And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet,→
Spring! 'midst the murmurs of thy flowing trees,
Why, why reviv'st thou these?
Vain longings for the dead! why come they back
With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
O! is it not, that, from thine earthly track,
Hope to thy world may look beyond the tomb?
Yes, gentle spring! no sorrow dims thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there!
VERNAL SONGSTERS.
OF vernal songsters-some to the holly hedge,
Nestling, repair, and to the thicket some;
Some to the rude protection of the thorn
Commit their feeble offspring: the cleft tree
Offers its kind concealment to a few,
Their food its insects, and its moss their nests:
Others apart, far in the grassy dale,
Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave:
But most in woodland solitudes delight,
In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day,
When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots
Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,
They frame the first foundation of their domes,
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis naught
But restless hurry through the busy air,
Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps
The slimy pool, to build the hanging house
Intent; and often, from the careless back
Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills
Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,
Steal from the barn a straw; till, soft and warm, Clean and complete, their habitation grows. THOMSON.
THE cavern-loving wren sequester'd seeks
The verdant shelter of the hollow stump,
And with congenial moss, harmless deceit,
Constructs a safe abode. On topmost boughs
The glossy raven, and the hoarse-voiced crow,
Rock'd by the storm, erect their airy nests.
The ousel, lone frequenter of the grove
Of fragrant pines, in solemn depth of shade
Finds rest; or 'mid the holly's shining leaves,
A simple bush the piping thrush contents,
Though, in the woodland concert, he aloft
Trills from his spotted throat a powerful strain,
And scorns the humbler quire. The lark, too, asks
A lowly dwelling, hid beneath a turf,
Or hollow, trodden by the sinking hoof;
Songster of heaven! who to the sun such lays
Pours forth as earth ne'er owns. Within the hedge,
The sparrow lays her sky-stained eggs. The barn
With eaves o'erpendent, holds the chattering tribe;
Secret the linnet seeks the tangled copse;
The white owl seeks some antique ruin'd wall,
Fearless of rapine, or in hollow trees,
Which age has cavern'd, safely courts repose;
The thievish pie, in twofold colours clad,
Roofs o'er her curious nest with firm-wreath'd twigs,
And sidelong forms her cautious door; she dreads
The talon'd kite, or pouncing hawk; savage
Herself, with craft suspicion ever dwells.
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