The Watchman

POETRY.

From the New York Knickerbocker.

THE BREATH OF SPRING.

How blessedly it steals my lattice through!
From the 'sweet south' it comes, where Summer
weaves
Eternal garlands. Laugh, ye waters blue—
Rejoicing burst, ye bud-imprisoned leaves!
Ye blossoms—Nature's censers—ope and fling
Your incense forth, on the first breath of Spring!

Sweet wooer of the flowers!—thy kiss of balm
Shall wake them blushing, to the shower and beam;
Through wood and vale thou wendest like a charm,
Mantling each slope, and fringing every stream;
O'er quickened pastures bound the frolic herd,
And all things living seem with rapture stirred.

Nature's elixir!—the exulting earth,
Drinking thy freshness, is no longer sere,
And in the glory of its vernal birth,
Seems but coeval with the opening year.
Who could believe six thousand years had flown
Since spring's first garland in her lap was thrown.

Welcome—most welcome! Now no longer creeps
The half-chilled blood reluctant thro' each vein,
But with wild glee my weakened heart upleaps,
As springs the troutlet to the summer rain;
And forth my spirit sends its greeting lay,
As Memnon's harp its tones at blush of day.

A world of wings is bursting from the brake,
And twinkling, darting, soaring through the air
Love's dimples circling in the silver lake;
Tell that thy pinion light is dallying there;
While a soft film of warm and dreamy haze—
Half beams, half mist—o'er dell and mountain plays.

Sweet courier of May! sent forth to dress
With leaves the bowers she soon shall beautify.
E'en as man's spirit o'er life's wilderness
Sends Hope to vivify futurity
I would that like thee I the world might rove
Enkindling all things into life and love!

Our least sensations are a mystery,
Feeding that mightier mystery—the mind!
In fancy, now, a far off shore I see;
There seems a fragrance on the wings, sweet wind.
Like the young violet's when its leaves expand
In the green valleys of my native land.

And lo! uprise, of that sweet odor born,
My cottage home, and its far shadowing trees—
The leaping rivulet, the daisied lawn,
And cowslip'd meadow—beautiful are these!
And though they be but phantoms of the mind.
I thank thee for their presence, gentle wind.