The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 41, Page 430
VIII.
Orchard Blossoms.
Doth thy heart stir within thee at the sight
Of orchard blooms upon the mossy bough?
Doth their sweet household smile waft back the glow
Of childhood's morn?—the marvel, the delight
In earth's new colouring, then all strangely bright—
A joy of fairy-land? Doth some old nook,
Haunted by visions of thy first loved book,
Rise on thy soul, with ſaint-streak'd blossoms white
Shower'd o'er the turf, and the lone primrose-knot,
And robin's nest, still faithful to the spot,
And the bee's dreamy chime?–Oh, gentle friend!
The World's cold breath, not Time's, this life bereaves
Of vernal gifts;—Time hallows what he leaves,
And will for us endear spring-memories to the end.
