_Tune_.--Gramachree.
The vernal month comes on with flowers
To deck the plains around,
No more the frown of winter lowers,
Or chills the fertile ground.
The snow-white lily, nature's pride,
Now blooms in every vale,
The rose breathes fragrance far and wide,
And perfumes every gale.
The vocal thrush pours forth her note
To hail the gladsome morn,
And every warbler strains his throat,
From garden, brake, and thorn.
Come then, dear Mary, let us fly
To join the impassioned lay,
And pluck each flower whose modest eye
Just opens into day.
And whilst we view the sweetest charms
That grace the new born year,
I'll fold thee gently in my arms,
And crush each budding care.
I'll say the blush upon thy cheek
Outvies the rose's hue,
The lily blooming o'er the vale,
No purer is than you.
But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers
Will wither and decay,
And that bright glow which decks thy cheek,
Like them will fade away:
But let not this alarm thy peace,
Nor tremble at thy doom,
For though the flush of youth will cease,
Thy soul shall ever bloom.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.