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Too much, oh! there too much!—we know not well Wherefore it should be thus, yet rous'd by thee, What fond strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell, Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone, By voices that are gone!

Looks of familiar love, that never more, Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet, Past words of welcome to our household door, And vanish'd smiles, and sounds of parted feet— Spring! midst the murmurs of thy flowering trees, Why, why reviv'st thou these?

Vain longings for the dead!—why come they back With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms? Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs? Yes! gentle spring; no sorrow dims thine air. Breath'd by our lov'd ones there!