I bedewed with tears those spring-time flowers,
For they brought to my mind the happy hours
When I roamed through the forests’ and meadows
green
With a heart all alive to each beautiful scene.
I loved the flowers when my step was light,
And my cheek with the glow of health was bright,
Through forest and meadows, o’er plain and o’er
hill
I may wander no more—but I love them still!
I love the flowers, and I love them best
When they first peep out from earth’s snow-wreathed
breast;
For they tell, amid sorrow, and death, and gloom,
Of a spring that shall visit the depths of the tomb!
And oh! could I roam through Fortune’s bowers,
I would twine a wreath of the sweetest flowers,
Whose beauty and fragrance should ne’er depart—
But brighten thy home and gladden thy heart!
But the flowers of earth are fragile and fair,—
And the young brow must fade and be furrowed with
care;
But hast thou not heard of a wonderful clime
That ne’er has been marred by the footsteps
of Time?
There in gardens of bliss the weary repose;
There the pale, sickly cheek wears the hue of the
rose;
There death never comes,—Oh, amid its bright
bowers,
May we twine for each other a garland of flowers!
I heard the other night in dreams
The early robin sing:
The southern winds unlocked the streams,
And warmed the heart of Spring.
The plum-trees wore their bridal dress,
The willows donned their plumes,
And to the zephyr’s fond caress
Gave forth their rare perfumes.
Through months of wintry frost and storm—
Yet never harmed by them—
A million germs had nestled warm,
Close to the parent stem.
The happy spring-time broke their rest,
They drank the morning dew,
They clasped the sunbeams to their breast,
And clothed the trees anew.
The clouds distilled the fertile rain
And sent it forth in showers;
The sunlight danced along the plain
And painted it with flowers.
The butterfly went forth to play,
The useful honey bee
Kept up a hunt through all the day.
Of cheerful industry.
The squirrel gamboled in the grove,
The rabbit bounded by,
The wary spider spun and wove,
And trapped the careless fly.
From out the joyous, vocal wood
The song of warblers came:
The cuckoo, in a merry mood,
Told and re-told its name.
And when behind the purple hill
The sun went out of sight,
The frogs began with hearty will
Their concert for the night.
Such scenes had made, in brighter years,
My heart with transport leap,
But now they touched the spring of tears,—
I sobbed aloud in sleep.
