Blow, winds of April, over the lea,
The world is fair and your wings are free!
There lurks no flower in the prairie grass
That ye may not kiss as ye onward pass;
No mountain pine that ye may not shake,
No palm-tree lone by its inland lake;
Then up and off and away with care,
Your wings are free and the world is fair!
Blow, winds of April, the winds for me,
The world is ours and our wings are free!
The lordly dome and the fenced estate,
The palaced park of the rich and great,
The castled lands of a hundred kings,-
We
pass them by on triumphant wings;
We o'erlook them all from our skiey bow'rs,
Our wings are free and the world is ours!
EACH reed that grows in
Our stream is frozen,
The fields it flows in
Are hard and black;
The water-fairy
Waits wise and wary
Till time shall vary
And thaws come back.
"O sister, water,"
The wind besought her,
"O twin-born daughter
Of Spring with me,
Stay with me, play with me,
Take the warm way with me,
Straight for the summer and oversea.”
But winds will vary,
And wise and wary
The patient fairy
Of water waits;
All shrunk and wizen,
In iron prison,
Till spring re-risen
Unbar the gates;
Till as with clamour
Of axe and hammer,
Chained streams that stammer
And struggle in straits; Burst bonds that shiver,
And thaws deliver
The roaring river in stormy spates.
In fierce March weather
White waves break tether,
And whirled together
At either hand,
Like foam or sand,
Past swamp or sallow
And reed-beds callow,
Through pool and shallow,
To wind and lee,
Till no more tongue-tied,
Full flood and young tide
Roar down the rapids and storm the sea.
BLUSH and blow, blush and blow,
Wind and brier-rose, if you will.
You are sweet enough, I know,-
You are sweet enough, but oh,
Hidden lonely, hidden low,
There is something sweeter still.
Come and go, come and go,
Suns of morning, moons of night,
You are fair enough, I know,-
You are fair enough, but oh,
Hidden darkly, hidden low,
Lies the light that gave you light.
MRS. SALLIE M. B. PIATT.
STITCHWORT'S out in frock of white, Celandine the chrysolite;
On the bank the primrose springs, And with larks the welkin rings !
Here in dainty azure see,
As in merry mockery
Of the soft cerulean dome,
Blue-eyed hyacinth at home;
Mark the herbage of the dells,
Purpled with his fairy bells—
Bells, which peal sweet notes of joy,
Heard by every truant boy.
Listen to the chattering pie,—
And the babbling jay's reply !
While the thrush repeats his song,
And the blackbird tunes his tongue.
Hear the chiff-chaff, finch, and wren,
Gossiping in yonder glen,
Heedless of the cuckoo's lay,
"Woods all green, oh, come away.”
Now, all lovely things combine
To create a sense divine:
Young grass sweetens much the sight;
Music gives the ear delight;
Flowers make sweeter too the touch ;
And of taste-say who o'ermuch
Beauty's honeyed lips can praise!
All those sweets bring sweet Spring days.
Go gather sunbeams where they lie
On every hillside sleeping,
And put them where they will not die,
Within your young heart's keeping.
They paint with light, with loving hand, the blossom when it's blowing,
They tune the lays of every land, and bless where'er they fall;
Keep every day like summer gay, for yellow Autumn's glowing,
For happy hearts have summer aye, and sunshine over all.
Then merry all-go merrily,
And happy foot go free,
With laughter ringing cheerily;
I would not stint your glee.
Wake up, yon gladsome voices, till the grand old wood rejoices,
Let beauty claim her kindred, where the lordly Summer's hand
His path of light is spreading for the bride that he is wedding;
Go all and greet the rosy Queen that's coming through the land.
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