SONG IN PRAISE OF SPRING. 
Peasants must weep, 
And kings endure ; 
That is a fate that none can cure! 
Yet Spring does all she can, I trow: 
She brings the bright hours, 
She weaves the sweet flowers, 
She dresseth her bowers, 
For all below ! 
Oh, the Spring ! the bountiful Spring ! 
Se shineth and smileth on every thing ! 
“Game! Irt us go te the and.” 
Barry Cornwall. 
OME ;—let us go to the land 
Where the violets grow! 
Let’s go thither hand in hand, 
Over the waters and over the snow, 
To the land where the sweet, sweet violets blow | 
There,—in the beautiful south, 
Where the sweet flowers lie, 
Thou shalt sing, with thy sweeter mouth, 
Under the light of the evening sky, 
That Love never fades, though violets die ! 





