 | Poems |  |
SPRING SONG.
Now the fields are full of flowers;
Now, in ev'ry country lane,
Making mirth and gladness ours,
Wild-flowers nod and blush again;
Now they stain
Heath and lane,
Long'd-for lost ones come again.
Now, in ev'ry country lane,
Making mirth and gladness ours,
Wild-flowers nod and blush again;
Now they stain
Heath and lane,
Long'd-for lost ones come again.
Now the mower, on his scythe
Leaning, wipes his furrow'd brow;
Many a song the milkmaid blithe
Carols through the morning now;
Clear and strong
Goes her song,
With the clanking pail along.
Leaning, wipes his furrow'd brow;
Many a song the milkmaid blithe
Carols through the morning now;
Clear and strong
Goes her song,
With the clanking pail along.
Gaily lusty Roger now
Through the furrows plods along,
Singing to the creaking plough
Many a quaint old country song;
Morning rings
As he sings,
With the praise of other Springs.
Through the furrows plods along,
Singing to the creaking plough
Many a quaint old country song;
Morning rings
As he sings,
With the praise of other Springs.
Children now in every school
Wish away the weary hours;
Doubly now they feel the rule
Barring them from buds and flowers;
How they shout,
Bounding out,
Lanes and fields to race about!
Wish away the weary hours;
Doubly now they feel the rule
Barring them from buds and flowers;
How they shout,
Bounding out,
Lanes and fields to race about!
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Now, with shrill and wondering shout,
As some new-found prize they pull,
Prattlers range the fields about,
Till their laps with flowers are full;
Seated round
On the ground,
Now they sort the wonders found.
As some new-found prize they pull,
Prattlers range the fields about,
Till their laps with flowers are full;
Seated round
On the ground,
Now they sort the wonders found.
Now do those in cities pent,
Labouring life away, confess,
Spite of all, that life was meant,
One to be with happiness:
Hark! they sing,
“Pleasant Spring,
“Joy to all was meant to bring.”
Labouring life away, confess,
Spite of all, that life was meant,
One to be with happiness:
Hark! they sing,
“Pleasant Spring,
“Joy to all was meant to bring.”
Poets now in sunshine dream;
Now their eyes such visions see,
That the golden ages seem
Times that yet again may be.
Hark! they sing:
“Years shall bring
“Golden ages—endless Spring.”
Now their eyes such visions see,
That the golden ages seem
Times that yet again may be.
Hark! they sing:
“Years shall bring
“Golden ages—endless Spring.”
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