LESSON 9

THE VOICE OF SPRING

I COME, I come! ye have called me long;

I come o’er the mountains with light and song:

Ye may trace my step o’er the wakening earth,

By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth,

By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,

By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers.

By thousands, have burst from the forest bowers;

And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes,

Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. —

But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,

To speak of the ruin or of the tomb!

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth;

The flsher is out on the sunny sea,

And the rein-deer bounds o’er the pastures free;

And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh,

And called out each voice of the deep blue sky,

From the night-bird’s lay through the starry-time

In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes

When the dark flr-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain; —

They are sweeping on to the silvery main;

They are flashing down from the mountain-brows,

They are flinging spray on the forest boughs;

They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,

And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come.

Where the violets lie may be now your home.

Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,

And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly;

With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,

Come forth to the sunshine, I may not stay.

— MRS. HEMANS

prim´-rose　I-tal´-ian　verd´-ure　re´-sounds

shad´-ow-y　tas´-sels　sil´-ver-y　chil´-dren

chest´-nut　pas´-ture　fling´-ing　vi´-o-lets

an´-cient　Ice´-land　star´-ry　joy´-ous