Her wondrous works on every side,
In bud and flower, on bush and tree,
At morning's blush, at eventide; -
There is no spot, no solitude,
Where her fair hand does not intrude.
Dark rocks that yesterday were bare,
And dreary as the wintry sea,
Her spell has touched, lightly as air,
And decked with verdant tracery;
Out of the earth she calleth up
The daisy and the buttercup.
Sad, songless snow-birds wander far;
Gay songs new-comers wildly sing;
Bright cowslips, each a golden star,
Are in the meadows glimmering; -
Fair sylphids hover o'er the scene,
And fairies sport upon the green.
The wood-nymph, wakened from a dream,
Unconscious of a form so fair,
Stands gazing in the silver stream
Seeing herself reflected there;
O'erjoyed, she dances through the glade,
To lute by fairy fingers played.
Ah! many a classic bard has flung,
In ornate ode or simple lay,
The tribute of his silver tongue
To sylph and sprite, to faun and fay,
But ne'er was touched the Sapphic string
To kinder fairy than the Spring.
A. L. H.