How silvery streamlets, from the mountain stealing,
Dance joyously the verdant vales along;

Cold fear no more the songster tongue is stealing,
Down in the thick dark grove is heard his song;
And all their bright and lovely hues revealing,
A thousand plants the field and forest throng;
Light comes upon the earth in radiant showers,
And mingling rainbows play among the flowers.
-Ludwig Tieck.

O

A SPRING SONG.

SPRING-TIME sweet!

Over the hills come thy lovely feet;

The earth's white mantle is cast away,

She clothes herself all in green to-day;

And the little flowers that hid from the cold
Are springing anew from the warm, fresh mold.

O Spring-time sweet!

The whole earth smiles thy coming to greet;
Our hearts to their inmost depths are stirred
By the first spring flower and the song of the bird;
Our sweet, strange feelings no room can find,
They wander like dreams through heart and mind.

O Spring-time sweet!

Now the old and the new in thy soft hours meet!
The dear, dead joys of the days long past,
The brightness and beauty that could not last,
Their fair ghosts rise with the ending of snow,-
The springs and the summers of long ago.

O Spring-time sweet!

With silent hope thy coming I greet;

For all that in winter the bright earth lost.
Doth rise, new-born, with the ending of frost;
Even so shalt thou bring me at last, at last!
All the hope and the joy and the love of the past.
- Translated by James Freeman Clarke.

Nov

SONG IN MARCH.

OW are the winds about us in their glee,
Tossing the slender tree;

Whirling the sands about his furious car,

March cometh from afar;

Breaks the sealed magic of old winter's dreams,

And rends his glassy streams;

Chafing with potent airs, he fiercely takes

Their fetters from the lakes,

And with a power by queenly Spring supplied,

Wakens the slumbering tide.

With a wild love he seeks young Summer's charms,

And clasps her in his arms;

Lifting his shield between, he drives away

Old Winter from his prey;

The ancient tyrant whom he boldly braves

Goes howling to his caves;

And, to his northern realm compelled to fly,

Yields up the victory;

Melted are all his bands, o'erthrown his towers,

And March comes bringing flowers.

- William Gilmore Simms.

MARCH.

HE stormy March is come at last,

ΤΗ

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou, to northern lands, again
The glad and glorious sun dost bring;
And thou hast joined the gentle train
And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills
In joy that they again are free,
And, brightly leaping down the hills,
Renew their journey to the sea.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies,
And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,
Seems of a brighter world than ours.

HE wind has a language, I would I could learn ;

THE

Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern;

Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,

And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along;

And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain;
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main,
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

- Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

TH

THE WIND IN A FROLIC.

HE wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, "Now for a frolic! Now for a leap!

Now for a madcap, galloping chase!

I'll make a commotion in every place!"

So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs, and scattering down

Shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges tumbled about;
And the urchins that stand with their thievish eyes.
Forever on watch ran off with each prize.

Then away to the fields it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,
Till offended at such a familiar salute,

They all turned their backs and stood silently mute.
So on it went capering and playing its pranks ;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river-banks;
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveler grave on the king's highway.

It was not too nice to bustle the bags

Of the beggar and flutter his dirty rags.

'Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor's wig and the gentleman's cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, “Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I'll make you bow!"

And it made them bow without more ado,

Or it cracked their branches through and through.

Then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,
Striking their inmates with sudden alarm;

And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd ;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane

With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,
For it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he
stood

With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.

- William Howitt.

MARCH.

HE March wind whistles through the somber pines,

THE

Whose sable crests show on the mountain ridge,

Like band of specters, gaunt and gray and grim,
Against the cold blue sky; cold, clear, and blue
Without one fleecy cloud.