THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
55 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 
I have breathed on the South, and the ches- 
nut flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest 
bowers.; 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veil’d with wreaths on Italian plains. 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin of the tomb ! 
I have pass’d o’er the hills of the stormy 
North, 
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ; 
The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 
And the rein-deer bounds through the pas¬ 
ture free, 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
And the moss looks bright where my step 
hath been. 
I have sent through the path-woods a gen¬ 
tle sigh, 
And call’d out each voice of the deep-blue 
sky— 
From the night-bird’s lay through the starry 
time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
