University of Virginia Library

Grey Winter stares aghast!
For the merry Spring outleaping,
Over his cold domain hath passed,
And summoned up the sleeping.
From their nook in the wild-wood glade,
The Fays come forth to meet him,
And the Pixies, 'neath the old oak-shade,
With joyous welcome greet him.
The wither'd crown from his brow
He doth pluck, and away they bear it,
And they weave him a chaplet green, I trow,
And shout to see him wear it.
And now grey Winter stands
In the midst of their sportive bands,
And strives with closed ears to keep their merry music out;
No love his looks bespeak,
And o'er each puckered cheek
Swift tears, but not of joy I wis, i' the furrows course about.

He calls to the tempest winds—
But the winds, alas! have drunken
Too deep of the nectarous draught, that binds
With a chain their strength, and sunken
In the laps of the wanton flowers they lie,
On the beds of moss, scent-breathing,
Or cradled soft 'midst the leaves on high,
With the sunbeams o'er them wreathing;
So his voice awakes them not.
Then he calls on the rains to aid him—
But the rains have wept themselves to death,
And the hail has fled from the sun's warm breath,
And the snow lies in dew on the turf beneath,
Poor wretch! they have all betrayed him!
He calls, but they heed him not.
Then the saucy Spring, grown bolder,
Doth bid old Winter flee,
And the eye of each beholder,
Lights up with ecstacy,
As the hoary king turns slowly,
From the little blithsome crew,
And with aspect, changed and lowly,
Doth bid his realm adieu.
But, ah! unpitying they!
When he turneth to go, the tyrant host
Surround him with odours he hateth most;
They pelt him with thistles, and thorned flowers,
They drive him in scorn from their festal bowers,
And ere yet he hath faded quite from view,
Or his footfall died away,
They pierce with their songs, the welkin blue,
And with mocking laughter his path pursue—
While the young leaves dance on the spray,
And a thousand flowers, that timidly,
Lay hidden deep while their foe was nigh,
Peep out at the balmy day;
And a thousand birds that mutely flew
From branch to branch, grown bolder too,
Break forth in a roundelay!

And joy is the burden of every song,—
There is joy in the river's flowing,
In the voice of the breeze as it floats along,
In the kine's soft pastoral lowing;
You may hear it the grasses and reeds among,
On the marge of the streamlet growing.
Joy on the new-born earth!
Joy in the halcyon sky!
Poor mourner, from thy silent hearth,
Look upward hopefully,
And give not to those sounds of mirth,
Wrung heart and tearful eye.

And thou, pale child, that low
On saddest couch art lying,—
Go forth, and health shall fan thy brow,
And chase away thy sighing.
Go forth, and sport beneath the bough,
Where the gladsome bee is humming,
And thou wilt bless, as I do now,
The young Spring's joyous coming.