Littell's Living Age/Volume 173/Issue 2236/April

April has come! And thro' the woodlands, late so dank and bare, And lone and dumb, And in the vales and uplands, everywhere, Breathes the soft zephyr, blows a warmer air — Bringer of Beauty and of radiant Mirth And full-eyed Hope, thro'out the vernal earth; And these sweet airy thoughts, that come and go, Changing my sober mood to frolicsome, And gracious sympathies that lively flow.

By every door And path again belovèd forms arise: No more, no more, Whistle the icy winds 'neath ruthless skies; From favor'd slopes I hear frail bleating cries, And quick short starts of song, and twitterings; And loud the rookery with clangor rings. O joyous thought! we glide more near the sun, And strikes a warmer shadow on the floor, And all is hast'ning unto Summer noon.

And that pure green — The daintiest green — that comes but once a year, Around is seen In budding grove and hedgerow, glist'ning clear, And in the dewy-tender grassy spear; While the three darling flowers, our childhood's flowers, Woo'd by the passion of the genial hours, In holm and hollow bloom, and with sweet breath Make fragrant the west wind, which drives, serene, The gorgeous, piled clouds o'er mead and heath.

From shore to shore, The glancing arrows of the western rain Sweep lightly o'er A hundred fields, and thro' the dusty lane, And city street; and lo l o'er hill and plain, Far-stretching, spans the rainbow, gleaming grand, As when the patriarch saw it in the land, Vision and sign celestial; and o'er all Bound the bright shadows, over mount and moor, Joy holding everywhere high festival.

Thro' sunny ways, Sure prophecies in murmurous minors sound Of coining days Of overbrimming joy, when June hath crown'd The year with her gay chaplet, and resound The full-leaved regal woods. And he who goes Slow stepping o'er the fields, and cheerily sows His handfuls broadcast, hears that humming noise With welcome; and the lark, 'mid noontide blaze; Perchance the cuckoo's immemorial voice.

Blow, western gale, With fresh'ning lusty strength, and bear afar, From every vale, And meadow, and bleak height, whate'er can bar The blossom-wreathèd year! Shine, sun and star: Shine, O thou silver sickle, clear and fair — Eve's queenliest jewel — nor our lower air With storm and havoc charge! So bless the time Which human hearts leap joyously to hail — Spring, once more glowing in immortal prime.