PICTURES FROM OCCASIONAL POEMS. 1850-56. SPRING. WINTER is past; the heart of Nature warms The southern slopes are fringed with tender green; White, azure, golden, — drift, or sky, or sun; The snowdrop, bearing on her patient breast Till her own iris wears its deepened hue; Swelled with new life, the darkening elm on high Prints her thick buds against the spotted sky; On all her boughs the stately chestnut cleaves At last young April, ever frail and fair, Wooed by her playmate with the golden hair, Chased to the margin of receding floods O'er the soft meadows starred with opening buds, In tears and blushes sighs herself away, And hides her cheek beneath the flowers of May, Then the proud tulip lights her beacon blaze, Her clustering curls the hyacinth displays, O'er her tall blades the crested fleur-de-lis, Like blue-eyed Pallas, towers erect and free; With yellower flames the lengthened sunshine glows, And love lays bare the passion-breathing rose; Queen of the lake, along its reedy verge The rival lily hastens to emerge, Her snowy shoulders glistening as she strips, Then bursts the song from every leafy glade, The yielding season's bridal serenade; Then flash the wings returning Summer calls Through the deep arches of her forest halls;· The bluebird, breathing from his azure plumes The fragrance borrowed where the myrtle blooms; The thrush, poor wanderer, dropping meekly down, Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown; The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire Rent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire. The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat, Repeats, imperious, his staccáto note; The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate, Feels the soft air, and spreads his idle wings. Why dream I here within these caging walls, Through blinding lenses, or in wearying books? THE STUDY. YET in the darksome crypt I left so late, Whose only altar is its rusted grate, Sepulchral, rayless, joyless as it seems, Shamed by the glare of May's refulgent beams, From these dull bars the cheerful firelight's glow Fenced by these walls the peaceful taper shone, Not all unblest the mild interior scene Its silver cherubs smiling as they heard, — Our hearts would open, as at evening's hour Such the warm life this dim retreat has known, Not quite deserted when its guests were flown; Nay, filled with friends, an unobtrusive set, Guiltless of calls and cards and etiquette, |