LAYS OF THE SEASONS. 



BY MARY HOWITT. 



SPRING. 



THE Spring she is a blessed thing ' 

 She is the mother of the flowers ; 



She is the mate of birds and bees, 



The partner of their revelries, 



Our star of hope through wintry hours. 



The merry children when they see 



Her coming, by the budding thorn, 

 They leap upon the cottage floor, 

 They shout beside the cottage door, 

 And run to meet her night and morn. 



They are soonest with her in the woods, 



Peeping, the wither'd leaves among, 

 To find the earliest, fragrant thing, 

 That dares from the cold earth to spring, 

 Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song. 



The little brooks run on in light, 



As if they had a chase of mirth ; 

 The skies are blue, the air is warm, 

 Our very hearts have caught the charm 

 That sheds a beauty over earth. 



