Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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THE RETURN OF SPRING. |
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| II. |
 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE RETURN OF SPRING.
Sweet Spring returns: again the blossoming trees
Ring with the murmurs of the busy bees;
The deep recesses of the sombre grove
Resign their silence to the songs of love;
The teeming earth shakes off the winter's gloom,
And clothes her gentle hills in robes of bloom;
The sunshine, glancing through the tepid shower,
Bursts every bud, and bathes each opening flower;
The balmy zephyrs from the genial south
Come gently, like the healthful breath of youth,
And breathing sweets, and singing birds conspire
To make my walk accord to my desire.
Ring with the murmurs of the busy bees;
The deep recesses of the sombre grove
Resign their silence to the songs of love;
The teeming earth shakes off the winter's gloom,
And clothes her gentle hills in robes of bloom;
The sunshine, glancing through the tepid shower,
Bursts every bud, and bathes each opening flower;
The balmy zephyrs from the genial south
Come gently, like the healthful breath of youth,
And breathing sweets, and singing birds conspire
To make my walk accord to my desire.
This lovely scene—this calm and tranquil night—
Might waken fancy, or inspire delight,
Or thrill the youthful heart with dreams of love,
Or draw the prayer of piety above.
Each turn I take presents some object dear
To please my eye, or sound to soothe my ear;
The sigh of leaves, the tinkling of the rill,
Oft heard before, yet heard with pleasure still;
The song of birds—that melody which heaven
To charm the poorest child of earth hath given—
Prove that the pleasures of the poor are dear
To Him who regulates the varying year.
Might waken fancy, or inspire delight,
Or thrill the youthful heart with dreams of love,
Or draw the prayer of piety above.
Each turn I take presents some object dear
To please my eye, or sound to soothe my ear;
The sigh of leaves, the tinkling of the rill,
Oft heard before, yet heard with pleasure still;
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To charm the poorest child of earth hath given—
Prove that the pleasures of the poor are dear
To Him who regulates the varying year.
The rich can purchase harp, and lute, and lyre,
The instrumental and the vocal choir,
Yet arts like these, when long continued, cloy,
And fail to stir the soul to notes of joy:
But who can tire of Nature's artless song,
Though oft repeated, and continued long?
The notes these warblers of the woods inspire,
All can enjoy alike, and all admire.
The sudden gush which fills the fairy dell—
The pause abrupt—the wild instinctive swell—
The deep response return'd from distant trees,
Mellow'd and soften'd on the evening breeze—
Can make the rudest rustic pause to hear,
And charm the nicest, most capricious ear.
The instrumental and the vocal choir,
Yet arts like these, when long continued, cloy,
And fail to stir the soul to notes of joy:
But who can tire of Nature's artless song,
Though oft repeated, and continued long?
The notes these warblers of the woods inspire,
All can enjoy alike, and all admire.
The sudden gush which fills the fairy dell—
The pause abrupt—the wild instinctive swell—
The deep response return'd from distant trees,
Mellow'd and soften'd on the evening breeze—
Can make the rudest rustic pause to hear,
And charm the nicest, most capricious ear.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |