56 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
THE VOICE OF SPRING. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
I come, I come! ye have called me long; 
I come o’er the mountains with light and song! 
Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth, 
By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, 
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 
X have breathed on the south, and the chestnut 
flowers 
By thousands have hurst from the forest bowers; 
And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains, 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb! 
X have passed 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 o’er the pasture free, 
And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 
And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath 
been. 
From the streams and founts I have loosed the 
chain: — 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
