] 54 
HE VOICE OF SPRING. 
Heaven’s own purest waters 
Well might bear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer 
grace. 
Will that clime enfold thee 
With immortal air? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more 
fair ? 
Yes! my fancy sees thee 
In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal 
royal rose. 
—Mrs. Homans. 
THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
I come, I come ! ye have call’d me long; 
1 come o’er the mountains with light and 
song! 
Ye may trace my steps o’er the wak’ning 
earth, 
By the winds that tell of the violet’s birth, 
