Pb* 
Willis. 
H, the merry day has pleasant hours, 
And dreamily they glide, 
As if they floated like the leaves 
Upon a silver tide. 
The trees are full of crimson buds, 
And the woods are full of birds, 
And the waters flow to music, 
Like a tune with pleasant words. 
The verdure of the meadow-land 
Is creeping to the hills, 
The sweet, blue-blossom’d violets 
Are blowing by the rills ; 
The lilac has a load of balm 
For every wind that stirs, 
An d the larch stands green and beautiful 
Amid the sombre firs. 
There’s perfume upon every wind— 
Music in every tree— 
Dews for the moisture-loving flowers, 
Sweets for the sucking bee; 
