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SPRING.
To look on Nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.”
Wordsworth.
Spring bursts upon us in sudden maturity,
as if the very seasons had caught the spirit
of the age, and childhood had, in everything,
become unfashionable. There is a joyousness
in the light, and warmth, and warbling
of these sunny days; and unlike all other
joyousness, it increases with our years. The
young prefer autumn; for there is a love of
melancholy inherent in our nature; and in
youth the heart is so full of gladness, so
mantled in its own sunlight, that it looks to
the external world for the novelty of sadness.
But as we grow older, the piping
winds, leafless trees, and marble skies of
our own wearied spirit: the old look to Nature
for the novelty of gladness.
And yet it is painful to compare the springtime
of the year with the spring-time of life.
The first bird-note that rings through the air,
sounds as plaintively as “To return to Lochaber
no more;” for when will the springtime
of the heart return? When again will
fancy pillow herself on the passing cloud,
and view heaven and earth mingled in one
glorious dream? Angels are around us in
the morning of life; and their blessed visions
become so distinctly our own, that imagination
has the vividness of experience, and
earth receives its colouring from heaven.
But when the world's chilly touch has wakened
us, we seldom dream again. At best,
short and fitful are the gleams of hope; and
if they dazzle, they do not warm the soul.
But it is the very spirit of egotism that
makes us sigh at the sight of infancy, and
weep at the return of spring. If the glory
has departed from us, if the shadows are still
lengthening as the sun of our life goes down,
Others can still dream as we have dreamed,
and perchance be blest enough to die while
their own visions are a heaven. Let the
seasons pass on in their beauty! We return
no more, but they will return. Spring
comes, with joy around her like an atmosphere,
folding all Nature in her sunny veil,
and gladdening the soul of man. Be our
autumnal croakings stilled: they ill accord
with the season; and we would not, like
winter, “chill the lap of May.”
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