The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sighing, storming, singing, smiling,
With her many moods beguiling,
April walks the wakening earth;
Wheresoe'er she looks and lingers,
Wheresoe'er she lays her fingers,
Some new charm starts into birth.

Fitful clouds about her sweeping—
Coming, going, frowning, weeping—
Melt in fertile blessings round;
Frequent rainbows that embrace her,
And with gorgeous girdles grace her,
Drop in flowers upon the ground.

Gay and green the fields beneath her,
Blue the broad unfathomed ether
Bending o'er her bright domain;
Full the buds her hands are wreathing,
Fresh the breezes round her breathing,
Fair her footprints on the plain.

Daisies sprinkle mead and mountain,
Violets by the mossy fountain
Ope their velvet vesture wide;
Cowslips bloom in open splendour,
But the primrose, pale and tender,
In lone places doth abide.

313

Nature now hath many voices—
Every living thing rejoices
In the spirit of the time;
Winds with leaves in whispers dally,
Streams run singing down the valley,
In the gladness of the prime.

Larks have long been up and chanting,
And the woodland is not wanting
In the sounds we love to hear;
For the thrush calls long and loudly,
And quaint echo answers proudly
From romantic hollows near.

Now the cuckoo, “blithe new-comer,”
Faithful seeker of the summer
Wheresoe'er its footsteps be,
Sits in places calm and lonely
And, in measured cadence only,
Sends wild music o'er the lea.

Who doth not delight to hear her?
Children's careless eyes grow clearer
As they look and listen long;
Manhood pauses on his travel,
Age endeavours to unravel
Old thoughts waking at her song.

Unbeliever, wan and wasted,
If the cup which thou hast tasted
Turns to poison as it flows,
Come, while gentler spirits call thee,
Let her summons disenthral thee
Of thy weakness and thy woes.

314

With the world if thou art weary,
If with doubt thy soul be dreary—
Crushed thy generous heart with care—
There is hope and there is healing,
Purer fancy, nobler feeling,
In this free, untainted air.

Mark this floweret, sweetly peeping
From the sod, where safe and sleeping
It hath lain the winter through—
How it opens with soft seeming,
To the breeze, and to the beaming
Of the sun-shower and the dew.

God hath made it, fed it, trained it
Into beauty, and maintained it
For thy use and solace, man;
Can such Guardian be forgetful
Of the selfish, sinful, fretful
Human portion of His plan?

All is gladness, all is beauty—
Nature with instinctive duty
Lifts her joyous homage high;—
Why should'st thou, with gloom ungrateful,
Turn on goodly things a hateful
Thankless heart, a scornful eye?

Wayward, wilful though thou seemest,
Dark and doubtful though thou deemest
The Eternal's glory, power, and name;
Nature, true to her designing,
Goeth on without repining,
Ever changing, yet the same.

315

All thy thoughts are full of error;
Disappointment, strife, and terror
Make thy journey sad and rough;
Nature never can deceive thee,
But of half thy cares relieve thee,
If thou hast but faith enough:

Faith to feel that all her wonders,
Stars, flowers, seasons, calms, and thunders,
Seas that rave, and streams that roll,
Are God's every day revealings—
Mute and many-toned appealings
To thine apathetic soul.

Come and woo her—she will bless thee;
Let her fresh free winds caress thee—
Let her smiles thy love repay:
Come while she is proudly wearing
Bridal garments, and preparing
For the festival of May.