Bland zephyrs, wheresoe'er ye stray,
The Spring doth call you,—come away.
—Thou too, my soul, with quicken'd force
Pursue thy brief, thy measur'd course,
With grateful zeal each power employ,
Catch vigor from Creation's joy,
And deeply on thy shortening span,
Stamp love to God, and love to man.
—But Spring with tardy step appears,
Chill is her eye, and dim with tears,
Still are the founts in fetters bound,
The flower-germs shrink within the ground,
Where are the warblers of the sky?
I ask,—and angry blasts reply.
—It is not thus in heavenly bowers,
Nor ice-bound rill, nor drooping flowers,
Nor silent harp, nor folded wing
Invade that everlasting Spring,
Toward which we look with wishful tear
While pilgrims in this wintry sphere.
THE SOAP BUBBLE.
Bright Globe! upon the sun-beam tost,
Pure, sparkling, then forever lost,
No crested wave that glittering breaks,
Nor pearl that Wealth admiring takes,
Nor diamond from Golconda's coast
Can half thy changeful brilliance boast.
—Hast thou a voice, to bid us see
An emblem of our infancy,
