'tis the voice of Spring, if Winter's no more;
All longing the time when howling blasts go,
To crown her their queen from shore unto shore;

To spread a rich carpet, by nature entwined,
Pave all her pathways with richest of gems;
To stud it with beauty in grandest profusion,
With roses and daisies on stalks and on stems.

Then welcome right gladly, then welcome, sweet Spring!
Let all be united, let every one sing;
Blended in a lyric let every voice be,
Your fairest of praises and sweetest notes bring.

THE BEREAVEMENT.
_Written for S. L._

Beside a bed of sickness sat
A maiden young and fair,
Torn from the scenes of youth and joy,
Her loved one was laid there.

She watched with an unceasing care
From morning until night,
Nor left him in the stilly hours
Before the morning light.

She marked each feebly passing breath
And every burdened sigh;
Nor grew she weary of the task;
No sleep came to her nigh.

She kissed his cheek, his pillow smoothed,
His burning brow she bathed;
And with a balmy fillet oft
His aching temples swathed.

Into the future deep and long
Her brooding thoughts would pry;
She could not think that he must soon--
That he must truly die.

And yet she saw the ruddy hue
Pass from his cheek away,
And that the lustre of his eye
Grew fainter every day.

At last a gentle sleep he slept,
And hope came in her breast,
As she beheld the tranquil smiles
Which on his features rest.

She sat and sighed, "Ah me! ah me!
Oh for the time again
When I shall see thy happy smile
Its wonted mirth regain!

Then shall we, as in time before,
The tranquil hours employ
In love and in a measure full
Of unpolluted joy."

Oh, child of hope! She knew not then
That he who by her lay
Was closed in death's unyielding arms,
His spirit borne away.

And when she turned from these fair dreams,
And saw he breathed no more,
Oh! woeful was it to behold
The grief the maiden bore.

She grasped the pale and lifeless form;
Her tears fell on it fast;
She sat the long night through and wept,
And wept the noonday past.

No more she cares for earthly things,
Nor friendly presence nigh;
These gladly now would leave behind,
And now would gladly die.

Dear mourner, is there nought to calm--
To soothe thy troubled breast?
Is there no balm to heal