To The Spring.

Hail to thee, spirit of hope! whom men call Spring;     Youngest and fairest of the four, who guide     Our mortal year along Time's rapid tide.     Spirit of life! the old decrepid earth     Has heard thy voice, and at a wondrous birth,     Forth springing from her dark, mysterious womb,     A thousand germs of light and beauty come.     Thy breath is on the waters, and they leap     From their bright winter-woven fetters free;     Along the shore their sparkling billows sweep,     And greet thee with a gush of melody.     The air is full of music, wild and sweet,     Made by the joyous waving of the trees,     Wherein a thousand winged minstrels meet,     And by the work-song of the early bees,     In the white blossoms fondly murmuring,     And founts, that in the blessed sunshine sing;     Hail to thee! maiden, with the bright blue eyes!     And showery robe, all steeped in starry dew;     Hail to thee! as thou ridest through the skies,     Upon thy rainbow car of various hue.