THE POETRY OF SPRING.
“Lo the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the
flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.”—Cant. ii. 11, 12.
“Bless the Lord, O my soul ------ He sendeth the springs
into the valleys—watereth the hills from his
chambers—causeth the grass to grow—appointeth
the moon for seasons ------ O Lord, how manifold
are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them
all: the earth is full of thy riches.”—Ps. civ. passim.
Hark! breezy anthems from the new-born spring,
Like hymning air-birds on exultant wing;
Wide o'er the fields a flushing radiance glows,
And vernal gladness through each woodland flows.
A seeming consciousness inspires the earth
As though the soil were blooming into mirth,
And, like rich blood in some glad creature's veins,
New tides of life are mantling through her plains.
Music and motion haunt each choral bough,
Like living spirits fill'd with joyance now;
Here, lyric tones, there, wave-like murmurs rise,
And there, the cadence of contented sighs.
Swift o'er the pebbles haste the hill-born streams,
And lisp and laugh, like infants in their dreams;
Or else, make liquid music as they run,
In fairy stanzas warbled to the sun.
The stainless magic of each new-born flower
Mirrors the charm of Heaven's creative power;
Beauty comes forth, like melody from lyres
Swept by some hand which Poesy inspires.
Look where you may, expressive gleams of youth
Dart through the conscience this celestial truth,—
That Christ is working resurrection-life,
Till earth grows radiant and with fulness rife.
The silken azure of yon ruffled sea,
The wing'd emotions of each bird, and bee,
Blent with a chorus of yon festal streams,—
All sway the sense, and beautify our dreams.
And when Morn reddens, until soft and soon,
The golden brightness of unbreathing noon
O'erveils the landscape with a slumb'rous light,
Still shall creation yield intense delight.
Let but the heart be spiritually clear,
Let but our soul this God-made earth revere,
Then will poetic eyes religion greet,
From stars on high, to insects at our feet.
For what is Nature, but a Book divine
Where Godhead dictates each material line,
Where each pure object proves almighty Thought
Forth from its viewless depths to vision brought?
Alas! for Souls, if men baptized can find
Nothing in nature to accost the mind,
Since all around them, did they read it well,
Bears the high meaning of some holy spell.
Sense cannot see them, but bright Angels may
Direct the sunbeams which adorn the Day,
Entone the breeze, and oft at vesper-hour,
Close the bent eyelid of each baby flower.
Cold Science worships philosophic Cause,
And for its God reveres vicarious laws,
Orphans creation of Jehovah's care,
And longs to silence what her scenes declare;
But Thou! by Whom all seasons reign and rule,
Fount of the fresh, the fair, and beautiful!
For ever may Thine angel-spring impart
This glorious symbol to each saintly heart,—
As wintry Earth Her floral garb assumes,
So will the dead, when summon'd from their tombs,
Rise at Thy voice, in resurrection-dress,
And beam with everlasting loveliness.
