A Maiden sang at morn beside a leaping rivulet--
Blithe merriment was on her lip and in her eye of jet;
Young Spring had shaken from his locks the amethystine beam--
O, it was sweet to hear the hymn of forest girl and stream!
A pale youth paddled wantonly far o'er a sunny lake,
And smiled to see the infant leaf in newborn gladness quake;
He had brooded the winter through, until his cheek grew pale
With dreaming mighty deeds, and now it freshened in the gale.
A white roe wandered where sweet herbs and tender grass were
peeping--
His snowy head was poised in pride, his chainless heart was leaping;
The bugle-bee had called the herd from icy solitude,
And he had come at bugle call--fleet centaur of the wood.
A robin bowed her golden breast and spread her gauze-wing forth,
And aye poured she in carol fond her long imprisoned mirth;
No mournful tones, no lute-like wail, were with her music blent;
'Twas--like the fife's shrill voice--a gush of unmixed merriment.