WHEN Flora, on her fairy wings, Her magic wand o'er earth does wave, The spirits of ten thousand springs Arise reanimate from their grave, The brook his icy boundary breaks And rushes foaming as of old, The crocus from the sunbeam takes The light which makes its chalice glowing gold. Half hidden by a sheltering tree The purple violet blows, And trailing o'er the mossy lea The star of the arbutus grows. From a thousand wood-birds' swelling throats, the notes come glad and free, Praising their Creator on high, in Nature's glorious symphony.
