University of Virginia Library

Bright Creature, lift thy voice and sing,
Like the glad birds, for this is Spring!
Look up—the skies above are bright,
And darkly blue as deep midnight;
And piled-up, silvery clouds lie there,
Like radiant slumberers of the air:
And hark! from every bush and tree
Rings forth the wild-wood melody.
The Blackbird and the Thrush sing out;
And small birds warble round about,
As if they were bereft of reason,
In the great gladness of the season;
And though the hedge be leafless yet,
Still many a little nest is set
'Mong the twisted boughs so cunningly,
Where early eggs lie, two or three.
And hark! those Rooks the trees among,
Feeding their never-silent young;
A pleasant din it is, that calls
The fancy to ancestral halls.
But hush! from out that warm wood's side,
I hear a voice that ringeth wide—
O, joyful Spring's sweet minstrel, hail!
It is indeed the Nightingale,
Loud singing in the morning clear,
As poets ever love to hear!

Look now abroad.—All creatures see,
How they are filled with life and glee:
This little Bee among the flowers
Hath laboured since the morning hours,
Making the pleasant air astir,
And with its murmuring, pleasanter.
See there! the wavering Butterfly,
With starting motion fluttering by,
From leaf to leaf, from spray to spray,
A thing whose life is holiday;
The little Rabbits too, are out,
And Leverets skipping all about;
And Squirrels, peeping from their trees,
A-start at every vagrant breeze;
For life, in the glad days of Spring,
Doth gladden each created thing.

Now green is every bank, and full
Of flowers and leaves for all to pull.
The Ficary, in each sunny place,
Doth shine out like a merry face;
The strong green Mercury, and the dear
Fresh Violets of the early year,
Peering their broad green leaves all through,
In odorous thousands, white and blue;
And the broad Dandelion's blaze,
Bright as the sun of summer days;
And in the woods beneath the green
Of budding trees are brightly seen,
The nodding Blue-bell's graceful flowers,
The Hyacinth of this land of ours—
As fair as any flower that blows;
And here the pale Stellaria grows,
Like Una with her gentle grace,
Shining out in a shady place;
And here, on open slopes we see
The lightly-set Anemone;
Here too the spotted Arum green,
A hooded mystery, is seen;
And in the turfy meadows shine,
White Saxifrage and Cardamine;
And acres of the Crocus make
A lustre like a purple lake.
And overhead how nobly towers
The Chestnut, with its waxen flowers,
And broad green leaves, which all expand,
Like to a giant's open hand.
Beside you blooms the Hawthorn free;
And yonder the wild Cherry-tree,
The fairy-lady of the wood;
And there the Sycamore's bursting bud,
The Spanish-chestnut, and the Lime,
Those trees of flowery summer-time.
Look up, the leaves are fresh and green,
And every branching vein is seen
Through their almost transparent sheen!
Spirit of Beauty, thou dost fling
Such grace o'er each created thing,
That even a little leaf may stir
The heart to be a worshipper;
And joy, which in the soul has birth,
From these bright creatures of the earth,—
Good is it thou should'st have thy way,
Thou art as much of God as they!

Now let us to the garden go,
And dig and delve, and plant and sow;
The fresh dark mould is rich and sweet,
And each flower-plot is trim and neat;
And Daffodil and Primrose see,
And many-hued Anemone,
As full of flower as they can be;
And here's the Hyacinth sweetly pale,
Recalling some old Grecian tale;
And here the mild Narcissus too;
And every flower of every hue,
Which the glad season sends, is here;
The Almond, while its branch is sere,
With myriad blossoms beautified,
As pink as the sea-shell's inside;
And, under the warm cottage-eaves,
Among its clustered, budding leaves,
Shines out the Pear-tree's flowers of snow,
As white as any flowers that grow:
And budding is the southern Vine,
And Apricot and Nectarine;
And Plum-trees in the garden warm,
And Damsons round the cottage-farm,
Like snow-showers shed upon the trees,
And like them shaken by the breeze.

Dear ones! 'tis now the time, that ye
Sit down with zeal to Botany;
And names which were so hard and tough,
Are easy now, and clear enough;
For from the morn to evening's hours
Your bright instructors are sweet flowers.
Go out through pleasant field and lane,
And come back, glad of heart again,
Bringing with you life's best of wealth,
Knowledge, and joy of heart, and health;
Ere long each bank whereon ye look
Will be to you an open book,
And flowers, by the Creator writ,
The characters inscribed on it!

Come let us forth into the fields!
Unceasing joy the season yields—
Why should we tarry within door?
And see, the children of the poor
Are out, all joy, and running races,
With buoyant limbs and laughing faces.
Thank heaven! the sunshine and the air
Are free to these young sons of care!
Come, let us too, be glad as they,
For soon is gone the merry May!