And griefs that speak through April's tears
And thoughts that rise

From out the dark soil of the past

With rays of sunshine, song and bloom;
Beauty and love too frail to last-

Yet have no tomb.

THE WELCOME RAIN.

Upon the drowsy ear of night

Came the low tinkle of the welcome rain;

Earth woke and thrills of rapturous delight

Passed o'er each scorching field, each blighted plain.

Then came a low, sweet concert of the leaves,
A ringing song, and this the glad refrain,
"The earth is comforted, as one who grieves,
Is comforted by this, the blessed rain."

Look up, ye plants, that saw each tiny flower
Wither and languish, as in mortal pain ;
Raise up each bending cup to catch the shower,
The pearly nectar of this blessed rain!

And you, ye trees, that waved with gestures wild
Your weary arms in many a sad complain,

Now clap your hands like a delighted child,

And catch the jewels of this welcome rain!

And you, ye brooks, that hidden in green dells
Far from the sultry sun so long have lain ;
Ring out in laughter all your silver bells,

And give your welcome to this wished-for rain!

And we, who with each season's busy round Murmur as though God's wisdom were in vain, Shall not we, too, with grateful hearts be found, And give our welcome to this blessed rain?

SPRING.

Earth's fingers 'neath the ground
Move gently, without sound.

Where matted roots so closely cling,

White, gray and golden thread

Stretch from their piny bed

To clasp the hand of coming Spring.

Earth's ring, the golden thread,

When joy and bloom are dead,

And cold and winter dwell above,

Still doth the circlet cling,

To greet the coming Spring,

And wake again to happiness and love.

Then will the blushing flowers,

Like the soul's happy hours,

Wake up to life and dream of heaven ;

While e'en the rocks so bare

Their lichens bright shall wear,

Those bridal knots by nature freely given.

Through all the vales and hills

The sunshine sends glad thrills,

And bids the brooks repeat it in their song,

Till ev'ry waving fern

The joyous truth may learn,

The Spring, the gentle Spring, doth pass along.

THE MORNING RIDE.

O morning air, like incense breathing sweet
To one confinement held in bonds so long,-
So long that pain e'en now asserts her reign

And mingles sadness with the morning's song;
Yet the glad heart still smiles to nature's charms,
And weariness e'er seeketh nature's arms.

O Mother Nature! take us to thy breast,
The sick, the weary and the silver hair;
There, like an infant, let us find our rest,

With folded hands, and listen to thy prayer;
And bid the earth her simple tales repeat,
And we, like tired child, sit at thy feet.

Let toil, with all her weary sounds, pass by,

And care, with all her myriad tasks, be gone;

Let morning spread her pictures to my eye,
Which, like a child well pleased, I gaze upon.
Creation comes anew with every eye,
That drinks in joy from earth and sea and sky.

O morning hours, when the glad earth awakes
And fills with new delight each opening flower;
When, like a golden flood, the sunshine breaks,

With warmth and health and healing for its dower; So should the soul each day its life renew,

Warmed with youth's sunshine, freshened by its dew.

LINES TO A PRESSED HEARTSEASE THAT GREW ON THE ALPS.

Dried Alpine flower!

Thou once wert bright,

When first the light

And balmy shower

Fell on thee in thy cradle green,

Fanned by the mountain winds, I ween.

You little thought,

By stranger hand

From foreign land

You would be sought;

That when declining leaving home,

You would be urged, aye, pressed to come!

Thy mates are dead,
But thou shalt live;
Mem'ry shall give

Thy beauties fled,

And thought shall bid fresh colors start
From each dry leaf with painter's art.

Thou tellest me,

Throughout the earth,
Around each hearth,

Hearts' ease may be !

As on the mountain grows thy flower,
The same as in our garden bower.

LINE'S

[On a Chromo by L. Prang, of a "Child standing beneath a Sumach Tree."]

O Childhood! with the rosy blush

Made redder 'neath the crimson tree,
Amid sweet Nature's calm and hush,
'Mid warbling bird and humming bee,
Where else should Childhood be?

O Childhood, fairer than the rose
And sweeter than the violet's bloom,
And can it be Life sees thy close,
And buries beauty in the tomb,
No more, no more to bloom?