Come, for the buds are burst in the warren, And the lamb’s first bleat is heard in the mead; Come, be Phyllis, and I’ll be Coryn, Though flocks we have none to fold or feed. Come for a ramble down the dingle, For Spring has taken the Earth to bride; Leave the cricket to chirp by the ingle, And forth with me to the rivulet-side. Lo! how the land has put from off her Her virgin raiment of winter white, And laughs in the eyes of the Spring, her lover, Who flings her a garland of flowers and light. Hark how the lark in his first ascension Fills heaven with love-songs, hovering on high; Trust to us for the Spring’s intention, Trust to the morn for a stormless sky. I know the meadow for daffodowndillies, And the haunt of the crocus purple and gold; I’ll be Coryn, and you’ll be Phyllis, Springs to-day are as sweet as of old. F. WYVILLE HOME. * * * * * Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH. * * * * * _All Rights Reserved._