How heavenly o'er my frame steals the life-breath
Of beautiful Spring! who with her amorous gales
Kissing the violets, each stray sweet exhales
Of May-thorn, and the wild flower on the heath.
I love thee, virgin daughter of the year!
Yet, ah! not cups,--dyed like the dawn, impart
Their elves' dew-nectar to a fainting heart!--
Ye birds! whose liquid warblings far and near
Make music to the green turf-board of swains;
To me, your light lays tell of April joy,--
Of pleasures--idle, as a long-loved toy;
And while my heart in unison complains,
Tears like of balm-tree flow in trickling wave,
And white forms strew with flowers a maid's untimely grave!
_New Monthly Mag._
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