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One gush of spring-time warm his heart again.
And in that moment cancel years of pain!
Look round,—those immemorial trees,
That wave their fresh-crowned branches in the breeze,
And lift their giant forms towards yon dark skies,
Now seem like spirits of the past to rise,
And in this hour of hope, with solemn tone,
To tell the tale of many a spring-time gone,—
Of changing years,—of hearts the young, the gay,
That one by one long since have passed away,
While they remain, in lofty beauty's prime,
Like things that scorn the withering hand of Time!
The blush of youth is on their forms once more,
For Spring has touched the earth with gentle power,
And all around the fresh and new-born flowers,
The bursting leaves, proclaim her joyous hours,
That youth of Nature, breathing mirth and song,
Like life's bright morn, too sweet to linger long!
All earth can give of beauty mingles there;
Sweet scents are floating through the quiet air,
Shed forth from every fragrant shrub and flower,
Night's incense breathed upon her holiest hour.
Nor sound is wanting,—chiming soft and clear,
The distant sheep-bell tinkles on the ear;
While swiftly rushing by on humming wing,
The new-born insects greet returning Spring.
And hark! amid yon dark ancestral trees,
A burst of music rises on the breeze;
A gush of sweetness thrills the silent air,—
A song no art can mock is warbled there.
'Tis thy sweet melody, night's minstrel bird!
Amid the sounds of day almost unheard;
And in that moment cancel years of pain!
Look round,—those immemorial trees,
That wave their fresh-crowned branches in the breeze,
And lift their giant forms towards yon dark skies,
Now seem like spirits of the past to rise,
And in this hour of hope, with solemn tone,
To tell the tale of many a spring-time gone,—
Of changing years,—of hearts the young, the gay,
That one by one long since have passed away,
While they remain, in lofty beauty's prime,
Like things that scorn the withering hand of Time!
The blush of youth is on their forms once more,
For Spring has touched the earth with gentle power,
And all around the fresh and new-born flowers,
The bursting leaves, proclaim her joyous hours,
That youth of Nature, breathing mirth and song,
Like life's bright morn, too sweet to linger long!
All earth can give of beauty mingles there;
Sweet scents are floating through the quiet air,
Shed forth from every fragrant shrub and flower,
Night's incense breathed upon her holiest hour.
Nor sound is wanting,—chiming soft and clear,
The distant sheep-bell tinkles on the ear;
While swiftly rushing by on humming wing,
The new-born insects greet returning Spring.
And hark! amid yon dark ancestral trees,
A burst of music rises on the breeze;
A gush of sweetness thrills the silent air,—
A song no art can mock is warbled there.
'Tis thy sweet melody, night's minstrel bird!
Amid the sounds of day almost unheard;
