56 
the voice OF SPRING. 
To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland 
lakes, 
When the dark fir bough into verdure 
breaks. 
From the streams and founts I have loosed 
the chain — 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main 
Ihey are flashing down from the mountain 
brows, 
They are flinging spray on the forest boughs 
They are bursting fresh from their starry 
caves, J 
And the earth resounds with the joy of 
waves. 
Come forth, 0 ye children of gladness, come 
Where the violets lie may be now 
home; 
your 
Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye 
And the bounding footstep, to me fly • * 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joy¬ 
ous lay, J } 
Come forth to the sunshine : I may not stay ! 
Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
Ihe wateis are sparkling in the wild wood 
glen— 
