

St ! 
f— 

Spring in the lay of Winter. 
Anon. 
ee mist still hovers round the distant hills ; 
But the blue sky above us has a clear 
And pearly softness; not a white speck lies 
Upon its breast; it is a crystal dome. 
There is a quiet charm about this morn 
Which sinks into the soul. No gorgeous colors 
Has the undraperied earth, but yet she shows 
A vestal brightness: not the voice is heard 
Of sylvan melody, whether of birds 
Intent on song, or bees mingling their music 
With their keen labor; but the twittering voice 
Of chaffinch, and the wild unfrequent note 
Of the lone woodlark, and the minstrelsy 
Of the blest robin, have a potent spell 
Chirping away the silence; not the perfume 
Of violets scents the gale, nor apple-blossom, 
Nor satiating bean-flower; the fresh breeze 
Itself is purest fragrance. Light and air 
Are ministers of gladness; where these spread, 
Beauty abides, and joy: where’er Life is 
There is no melancholy. 









