TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. YOUNG HERALD of the spring, pale Primrose flower, When Nature sleepeth in her wintry thrall, Thy stainless sister, Snowdrop, is not here, Lest the keen frost-wind, with remorseless breath, No lark is chanting o'er the lonely hill, No thrush is piping in the shelter'd vale; There is no motion in the tenderest trees, The buds are yet in embryo; the light Hath brought no vernal promise to the thorn; The fields are shrouded in resplendent white, And in this solemn time, half day, half night, Follows the morn; A cold, grey sky bends o'er the barren plain, And the blind sun looks from his throne in vain. Welcome thou art, though like a poor man's child, Baring thy breast to the inclement sky, Gazing on thee, Association brings A thousand golden intervals of time, Old loves and friendships, happy hearts and faces, I feel thy breath, and Fancy leads the way With merry voice, When the faint starlight of the night-time yields To the sweet floral starlight of the fields. Green forest haunts come back to me, where I Sing to the sparkling waters, as they sweep, I hear the voice of children at their play, Earnest but soft, with frequent pause they speak, Fair, fragrant promiser of brighter hours, Like Hope, thou smilest on my weary eye ;— Richer, because thou teachest from the sod, FROM HOURS WITH THE MUSES." By J. C. PRINCE.* * A poet in very humble life. In a biographical sketch, prefixed to his poems, it is said: "On a bundle of straw did this wretched family, consisting of a man and his wife, and three children, lie for several months." |