SPRING. 



Sweet is thy coming, Spring ! and as I pass 



Thy hedge rows, where from the half-naked spray 



Peeps the sweet bud, and 'midst the dewy grass 



The tufted primrose opens to the day, 



My spirits light and pure confess thy pow'r 



Of balmiest influence : there is not a tree 



That whispers to the warm noon- breeze ; nor flow'r 



Whose bell the dew-drop holds, but yields to me 



Predestiniugs of joy : 



How beautiful the pastime of the Spring ! 

 Lo ! newly waking from her wintry dream, 

 She, like a smiling infant, timid plays 

 On the green margin of this sunny lake, 

 Fearing, by starts, the little breaking waves 

 (If riplings rather known by sound than sight 

 May haply so be named) that in the grass, 

 Soon fade in murmuring mirth. 



PROFESSOR WILSON. 



