A Spring Song. AUD the first Spring daisies; LAUD Chant aloud their praises; Send the children up To the high hill's top: Edward Youl. Tax not the strength of their young hands To increase your lands. Gather the primroses; Make handfuls into posies; Take them to the little girls who are at work in mills: Pluck the violets blue, Ah, pluck not a few! Knowest thou what good thoughts from Heaven the violet instils? Give the children holidays, (And let these be jolly days,) Grant freedom to the children in this joyous Spring: Better men, hereafter, Shall we have, for laughter Freely shouted to the woods, till all the echoes ring. Worship God,-(for he is God of birds as well as men ;) And each feathered neighbor Enters on his labor, Sparrow, robin, redpole, finch, the linnet and the wren. Trees their naked branches Clothe, and seek your pleasure in their green apparel. Keep no Lent, but feast; Spring breathes upon the earth, and their joy is increased, And the rejoicing birds break forth in one loud carol. Ah, come, and woo the Spring; List to the birds that sing; Pluck the primroses; pluck the violets; Pluck the daisies, Sing their praises; Friendship with the flowers some noble thought begets. Come forth and gather these sweet elves, (More witching are they than the fays of old,) Come forth and gather them yourselves, Learn of these gentle flowers, whose worth is more than gold. 30 EDWARD YOUL. Come, come into the wood; Pierce into the bowers Of these gentle flowers, Which not in solitude Dwell, but with each other keep society; And, with a simple piety, Are ready to be woven into garlands for the good. Worship the God of Nature in your childhood; Worship Him at your tasks with best endeavor; Worship Him in your sports; worship Him ever; Worship Him in the wildwood; Worship Him amidst the flowers ; In the green-wood bowers; Pluck the buttercups, and raise Your voices in His praise. The Voice of the Grass. Anonymous. ERE I come creeping, creeping every where; HERE By the dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping every where. All around the open door, Where sit the aged poor, In the bright and merry May, In the noisy city street, My pleasant face you'll meet, Toiling his busy part, Silently creeping, creeping every where. 88 32 ANONYMOUS. You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping every where. More welcome than the flowers, In Summer's pleasant hours; And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping every where. When you're numbered with the dead, In your still and narrow bed, In the happy Spring I'll come, And deck your silent home; My humble song of praise, Most gratefully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land; Creeping, silently creeping, every where. |