'TIS SPRING, MY LOVE, 'TIS SPRING 'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the birds begin to sing: If 'twas Winter, left alone with you, Your bonny form and face Would make a Summer place, And be the finest flower that ever grew. 'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring, And the hazel catkins hing, While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew; But that's not so white within As your bosom's hidden skin-- That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew. The sun arose from bed, All strewn with roses red, But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place Is not so fresh and fair, Or so sweet beyond compare, As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face. I love Spring's early flowers, And their bloom in its first hours, But they never half so bright or lovely seem As the blithe and happy grace Of my darling's blushing face, And the happiness of love's young dream. LOVE OF NATURE I love thee, Nature, with a boundless love! The calm of earth, the storm of roaring woods! The winds breathe happiness where'er I rove! There's life's own music in the swelling floods! My heart is in the thunder-melting clouds, The snow-cap't mountain, and the rolling sea! And hear ye not the voice where darkness shrouds The heavens? There lives happiness for me! My pulse beats calmer while His lightnings play! My eye, with earth's delusions waxing dim, Clears with the brightness of eternal day! The elements crash round me! It is He! Calmly I hear His voice and never start. From Eve's posterity I stand quite free, Nor feel her curses rankle round my heart. Love is not here. Hope is, and at His voice-- The rolling thunder and the roaring sea-- My pulses leap, and with the hills rejoice; Then strife and turmoil are at end for me. No matter where life's ocean leads me on, For Nature is my mother, and I rest, When tempests trouble and the sun is gone, Like to a weary child upon her breast. THE INVITATION Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one, And let us be walking the meadows so fair, Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes, And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair. Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by; Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown; Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear, Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down. Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare; Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane; To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes, Come, love, and let us be happy again. Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue; Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook Where you and I pledged our first love so true. TO THE LARK