Classic Poem

As the fabled stone into music woke
When the morning sun o'er the marble broke,
So wakes the heart from its stern repose,
As, o'er brow and bosom, the spring wind blows;
So it stirs and trembles, as each low sigh
Of the breezy south comes murmuring by,—
Murmuring by, like a voice of love,
Wooing us forth amid flowers to rove;
Breathing of meadow-paths, thickly sown
With pearls, from the blossoming fruit-trees blown,
And of banks that slope to the southern sky,
Where languid violets love to lie.
No foliage droops o'er the wood-path now,
No dark vines, swinging from bough to bough;
But a trembling shadow of silvery green
Falls through the young leaf's tender screen,
Like the hue that borders the snow-drop's bell,
Or lines the lid of an Indian shell;
And a fairy light, like the firefly's glow,
Flickers and fades on the grass below.
There the pale anemone lifts her eye,
To look at the clouds as they wander by;
Or lurks in the shade of a palmy fern,
To gather fresh dews in her waxen urn.
Where the moss lies thick on the brown earth's breast,
The shy little may-flower weaves her nest;
But the south wind blows o'er the fragrant loam,
And betrays the path to her woodland home.
Already the green-budding, birchen spray
Winnows the balm from the breath of May;
And the aspen thrills to a low, sweet tone
From the reedy bugle of Faunus blown.
In the tangled coppice, the dwarf-oak weaves
Her fringe-like blossoms and crimson leaves;
The sallows their delicate buds unfold
Into downy feathers bedropped with gold;
While, thick as stars in the midnight sky,
In the dark, wet meadows the cowslips lie.
A love-tint flushes the wind-flower's cheek,
Rich melodies gush from the violet's beak;
On the rifts of the rock the wild columbines grow,
Their heavy honey-cups bending low,
As a heart which vague, sweet thoughts oppress
Droops with its burden of happiness.
There the waters drip from their moss-rimmed wells,
With a sound like the tinkling of silver bells,
Or fall, with a mellow and flute-like flow,
Through the channeled clefts of the rock below.
Soft music gushes in every tone,
And perfume in every breeze is blown;
The flower in fragrance, the bird in song,
The glittering wave as it glides along,—
All breathe the incense of boundless bliss,
The eloquent music of happiness.
Yet sad would the spring-time of Nature seem
To the soul that wanders 'mid life's dark dream,
Its glory a meteor that sweeps the sky,
A blossom that floats on the storm-wind by,
If it woke no thought of that starry clime
Beyond the desolate seas of Time;
If it nurtured no delicate flower, to blow
On the hills where the palm and the amaranth grow.