WHERE is the snow-wreath that but yesterday
Crested yon mountain's brow? the icy chain
Which held the waters in subjection, where?
A breath from "the sweet south" hath melted them;
And, hark! how yon freed brook, as it pursues
Its seaward track, proclaims rejoicingly
To hill and valley, that sweet Spring has come!
Yes, Spring has come, with light and beauty crown'd;
And where her dews have fall'n on mead or bower,
Or the light pressure of her foot hath been,
Up starts at once a galaxy of flowers,
Each in its tiny chalice offering up
Whate'er it hath of fragrance, at her shrine;
Nor lacks there fitting music, for the breeze
Steals from each bush a song, and with it blends
Its own soft cadences, so wildly sweet.
Nature keeps holiday, and man himself
Partakes her triumph and imbibes her joy;
Sickness revives, and Grief forgets to weep;
And many a harp which on the willows hung