SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.
SPRING.
The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song—the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown. winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me—come and follow—and follow."
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song—the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown. winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me—come and follow—and follow."
A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
