 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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APRIL.
“When proud-pied April, dressed in al his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”
Shakespeare.
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”
Shakespeare.
A subtle masker is abroad,
Attended by a merry band,
Gemming with emerald the sod,
And breathing fragrance through the land:
Now, in a robe of blue and gold,
He wraps his form of graceful mould,
And whispers—“I am May,”
In tones of ravishment—anon
He puts more gloomy raiment on,
A sterner part to play.
Attended by a merry band,
Gemming with emerald the sod,
And breathing fragrance through the land:
Now, in a robe of blue and gold,
He wraps his form of graceful mould,
And whispers—“I am May,”
In tones of ravishment—anon
He puts more gloomy raiment on,
A sterner part to play.
By April of the sunny tress
The mighty spell of death is broke,
As marble, with a fond caress,
To life the son of Belus woke;
His magic flute of many keys
Gives to the soft, enamored breeze
Notes that recall the lost—
Plumed exiles far away that flew
When brown the leaves of Autumn grew,
Touched by a “killing frost.”
The mighty spell of death is broke,
As marble, with a fond caress,
To life the son of Belus woke;
His magic flute of many keys
Gives to the soft, enamored breeze
Notes that recall the lost—
Plumed exiles far away that flew
When brown the leaves of Autumn grew,
Touched by a “killing frost.”
The black-bird chants, musician shrill,
Perched lightly on some budding tree,
And the blithe robin opes her bill,
Flooding the grove with melody:
The blue-bird carols on the wing,
And in my frozen heart the spring
Of joy wells up again;
Yon lark, whose pulsing breast hath drawn
Its color from the golden dawn,
Whistles a cheerful strain.
Perched lightly on some budding tree,
And the blithe robin opes her bill,
Flooding the grove with melody:
The blue-bird carols on the wing,
And in my frozen heart the spring
Of joy wells up again;
309
Its color from the golden dawn,
Whistles a cheerful strain.
Buds of the maple, redly tinged,
Are bursting in the naked wood,
And passing clouds, with amber fringed,
Drop diamonds on the dimpling flood:
Moist mould, disturbed by spade or plough,
A grateful smell is yielding now,
In field and garden-close;
Bright trout are leaping in the brook,
And craftily his baited hook
The silent angler throws.
Are bursting in the naked wood,
And passing clouds, with amber fringed,
Drop diamonds on the dimpling flood:
Moist mould, disturbed by spade or plough,
A grateful smell is yielding now,
In field and garden-close;
Bright trout are leaping in the brook,
And craftily his baited hook
The silent angler throws.
Few violets as yet adorn
Glade, river-bank, and meadow-sod;
But welcome to the wind of morn
The daffodil and crocus nod:
More gorgeous pets can June-time boast,
But vernal flowers call up a host
Of recollections dear,
And fair, expanding hopes that die,
Or dormant in the bosom lie,
When older grows the year.
Glade, river-bank, and meadow-sod;
But welcome to the wind of morn
The daffodil and crocus nod:
More gorgeous pets can June-time boast,
But vernal flowers call up a host
Of recollections dear,
And fair, expanding hopes that die,
Or dormant in the bosom lie,
When older grows the year.
While crimson with a quicker flow
Is coursing through the veins of age,
He deems the scroll of Long-Ago,
Though blurred, a newly-written page.
Gay Childhood, of the radiant brow,
His maddest prank is playing now—
Waking his wildest cry:
No longer closeted with brooks,
On wave and land the student looks—
Enchantment in his eye.
Is coursing through the veins of age,
He deems the scroll of Long-Ago,
Though blurred, a newly-written page.
Gay Childhood, of the radiant brow,
His maddest prank is playing now—
Waking his wildest cry:
No longer closeted with brooks,
On wave and land the student looks—
Enchantment in his eye.
310
The moonshine of an April night
Is balsam to a fevered soul,
And pastures, bathed in glimmering light,
Invite me forth alone to stroll:
Young herbage decorates the ground,
And fall my feet without a sound
Upon its tender green;
Earth, late so desert-like, hath donned
Vestments, in beauty far beyond
The wardrobe of a queen.
Is balsam to a fevered soul,
And pastures, bathed in glimmering light,
Invite me forth alone to stroll:
Young herbage decorates the ground,
And fall my feet without a sound
Upon its tender green;
Earth, late so desert-like, hath donned
Vestments, in beauty far beyond
The wardrobe of a queen.
Light curtain-folds of hazy blue
Hang, star-emblazoned in the sky,
And far-off groves, that limit view,
Tower with their silvery tops on high;
The music of a ceaseless hymn
That riseth from their cloisters dim,
Quells the low plaint of Care;
Voices, inaudible when Day,
A babbler loud, holds gaudy sway,
Float on the tides of air.
Hang, star-emblazoned in the sky,
And far-off groves, that limit view,
Tower with their silvery tops on high;
The music of a ceaseless hymn
That riseth from their cloisters dim,
Quells the low plaint of Care;
Voices, inaudible when Day,
A babbler loud, holds gaudy sway,
Float on the tides of air.
Thrice welcome, April! Beauty sips
One draught of thy refreshing wine,
And song once more is on her lips,
Bloom on her countenance divine:
Retreating Winter vainly flings
A snow-flake from his feeble wings
To mar thy work of joy:
The sports of Easter are thine own,
When Manhood throws his burthen down,
And personates the boy.
One draught of thy refreshing wine,
And song once more is on her lips,
Bloom on her countenance divine:
Retreating Winter vainly flings
A snow-flake from his feeble wings
To mar thy work of joy:
The sports of Easter are thine own,
When Manhood throws his burthen down,
And personates the boy.
Earth's Laureate Bard in other years,
Warmed into being by thy breath,
Drank from thy cup of sun-lit tears,
And learned thy spell to conquer Death:
The lights and shadows of thy face
Upon his pictured leaves we trace,
Thy humors quaint and wild;
The Skeletons of Ruin heard
His awful, vivifying word,
And, like thy landscape, smiled.
Warmed into being by thy breath,
Drank from thy cup of sun-lit tears,
And learned thy spell to conquer Death:
311
Upon his pictured leaves we trace,
Thy humors quaint and wild;
The Skeletons of Ruin heard
His awful, vivifying word,
And, like thy landscape, smiled.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |