O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled
In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! 
The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards,
Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards;
All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb,
Without price, without peril, is offered to him;
And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting,
As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things,
Of speed that surpasseth the fairy’s fleet wings;
How the lands of the world in communion are brought,
And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. 
Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be
With this wonderful wire ’neath the earth and the sea;
When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring
All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring.

Oh!  Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love,
That the master who lives in the great house above
Prepares for the poor child that’s born on His land—­
Dear God! they’re the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand—­
The crocus, the primrose, the violet given
Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven;
The brightness and lightness that round the world wing
Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring!

O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by,
And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by;
And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam,
Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream,
The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts,
Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts;
Let us feel ’tis a mother, to whose breast we cling,
And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.

ALL FOOL’S DAY.

The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing
  At the door of his golden-wall’d palace on high;
And he bade him be off, without any delaying,
  To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: 
“You will give him this letter,” said roguish Apollo
  (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye),
With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow
  Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply.”

The Beam heard the order, but being no novice,
  Took it coolly, of course—­nor in this was he wrong—­
But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo’s post-office)
  To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn’t be long;
So he went home and dress’d—­gave his beard an elision—­
  Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace;
And thus being equipped, with a postman’s precision,
  He prepared to set out on his nebulous race.