BY C.P. CRANCH.
The warring hosts of Winter and Spring
Are hurtling o’er the plains;
All night I heard their battle-clarions ring
And jar the window-panes.
The arrowy sleet is rattling on the glass,
Where late the sunbeam shone;
The untimely snows besiege the sprouting grass,
The elm trees toss and moan.
Their swelling buds curl backward as they swing;
The crocus in its sheath
Listens, a watchful sentinel, till Spring
Shall melt the snow’s last wreath.
The saddened robins flit through leafless trees
And chirp with tuneless voice,
And wait the conquering sun, the unbindling breeze,
—They cannot yet rejoice.
Slowly the victor Spring her foe outflanks,
And countermines his snows;
Then, unawares, along the grassy banks
Her ambushed violets throws.
Soon she will mask with buds of fragrant white
Her arsenal of thorns,
And lift her rose-bush banners to the light
Of soul-entrancing morns.
Along the fields her fairy troops shall hide
And conquer by their grace,
And shake their flowery crests, and far and wide
The surly frosts displace;
Till all the woods are ringing with the glee
And prophecy of change,
That melts the past and sets the present free
Through Summer’s perfect range.
Oh! flagging spring of honor and of truth,
Shalt thou not victor be,
And bring again the faith the nation’s youth
Made one with liberty?
Shall the new birth America has known
Amid her battle-throes
Prove a nipped blossom, blighted ere ‘tis blown—
Or a perennial rose?
APRIL, 1874.—Independent.
