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And many a prayer, of spirit true,
Breaks from paternal lips for you.
—No more the vales with daisies glow,
The violet sleeps beneath the snow,
The rose her radiant robes doth fold
And hide her buds from winter's cold.
But Spring, with gentle smile, shall call
Up from their beds, those slumberers all;
Fresh verdure o'er your path shall swell,
The brook its tuneful story tell,
And graceful flowers with varied bloom
Again your garden's bound perfume.—
—Ye are our buds; and in your breast
The promise of our hope doth rest.
When knowledge like the breath of Spring
Shall wake your minds to blossoming,
May their unfolding germs disclose
More than the fragrance of the rose,
More than the brightness of the stream,
That through green shades, with sparkling gleam
In purity and peace doth glide
On to the ocean's mighty tide.
