THE THRUSn. 



13 



Day, wlillc its song is truly the herald of spring ; 

 for, even before a violet lias peeped forth, it is 

 becoming frequent in every wood. Calder Camp- 

 bell, in an unpublished poem, describes its early 

 singing among the trees. 



" A taste of winter in the murky town 



Drove me to seek for shelter in the fields, 

 But leafless trees, and pastures damp and brown, 

 Gave little promise of what spring-tide yields. 



The lanes were rugged for the want of leaves, 

 And green things saw I not, save one alone. 



The generous ivy, that o'er bareness weaves 

 Its gi-aceful wreath to cover tree and stone. 



Yet winter had expired : where yesterday 



Keen snow-drift powder'd every way-side thing, 



The balmy dew gleam'd in the sun's glad ray. 



To scatter pearls where red-tippd woodbines cling. 



It is the spring ! for, lo ! unfolded yet- 

 Where pale-green buds peep from the elm-tree boughs, 



And where rich sulphur-tmted flowers are set 

 Around the alight stalks of the first primrose. 



It is the spring I I hear her first glad song ! 



I see her earliest bird, the speckled thrush ! 

 His descant rich swells sweet yet loud along. 



And makes a vocal bower of every bush. 



Oh, welcome Spring ! oh, welcome vernal flowers ! 



Oh, welcomer than all, the merry bird 

 Whose warbling music— earnest of bright hours, 



Is the first hymn to Sprmg by wandering poet heard." 



