 | Lays of Leisure Hours |  |
217
THE COMMENCEMENT OF SPRING.
'Tis the first flush of Spring—now leafy dellsResound with bird-notes—flourished canticles
Swell forth from every golden shining spray
That sparkles in the flooding light of day,
Earth prides her in her vernal furniture,
So delicate and freshly fair and pure,
And puts on all her ornaments, as might
Some Eastern Bride to charm the astonished sight
Of her young Bridegroom, unto whom her face
Had ne'er yet been unveiled in virgin grace,
As though with that first look at her bright charms
She hoped to o'erpower him with love's sweet alarms,
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And rivit him to her for evermore!
A Paradise unto the eye thou art,
Oh! Earth! but what, Oh! what unto the heart?
Too oft the whited sepulchre—where lies
For ever lost, all, all that heart could prize;
The tomb of all its hopes laid darkly low,
Where they may feel not Spring's returning glow,
Earth's Bridegroom comes but they shall greet him not,
For Sorrow there is still some desert spot
Which it or finds, or makes its gloomy lair,
And Spring frowns bleak as barren Winter there!
My own poor heart I dare not ask of thee
If thy fond hopes destroyed and withered be,
I dare not ask of thee, mine own poor heart,
If thou pale Sorrow's slave and victim art,
No—thy dark history I would fain conceal
Even from myself—nor heed thy sad appeal—
Why should I seek the whole extent to know
Perchance of an Eternal—hopeless woe?
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