INTRODUCTION. 
Where is the snow-wreath that but yesterday 
Crested yon mountain’s brow? the icy chain 
Which held the waters in subjection, where? 
A breath from “ the sweet south” hath melted them ; 
And, hark ! how yon freed brook, as it pursues 
Its seaward track, proclaims rejoicingly 
To hill and valley, that sweet Spring has come ! 
Yes, Spring has come, with light and beauty crown’d; 
And where her dews have fall’n on mead or bower, 
Or the light pressure of her foot hath been, 
Up starts at once a galaxy of flowers, 
Each in its tiny chalice offering up 
Whate’er it hath of fragrance, at her shrine; 
Nor lacks there fitting music, for the breeze 
Steals from each bush a song, and with it blends 
Its own soft cadences, so wildly sweet. 
Nature keeps holiday, and man himself 
Partakes her triumph and imbibes her joy; 
Sickness revives, and Grief forgets to weep; 
And many a harp which on the willows hung 
