Old customs! Oh! I love the sound: However simple they may be: Whate’er with time have sanction found, Is welcome, and is dear to me. Pride grows above simplicity, And spurns them from her haughty mind, And soon the poet’s song will be The only refuge they can find. THE APPROACH OF SPRING Now once again, thou lovely Spring, Thy sight the day beguiles; For fresher greens the fairy ring, The daisy brighter smiles: The winds, that late with chiding voice Would fain thy stay prolong, Relent, while little birds rejoice, And mingle into song. Undaunted maiden, thou shalt find Thy home in gleaming woods, Thy mantle in the southern wind, Thy wreath in swelling buds: And may thy mantle wrap thee round, And hopes still warm and thrive, And dews with every morn be found To keep thy wreath alive. May coming suns, that tempt thy flowers, Smile on as they begin; And gentle be succeeding hours As those that bring thee in; Full lovely are thy dappled skies, Pearl’d round with promised showers, And sweet thy blossoms round thee rise To meet the sunny hours. The primrose bud, thy early pledge, Sprouts ’neath each woodland tree, And violets under every hedge Prepare a seat for thee: As maids just meeting woman’s bloom Feel love’s delicious strife, So Nature warms to find thee come, And kindles into life. Through hedge-row leaves, in drifted heaps Left by the stormy blast, The little hopeful blossom peeps, And tells of winter past: A few leaves flutter from the woods, That hung the season through, Leaving their place for swelling buds To spread their leaves anew. ’Mong withered grass upon the plain, That lent the blast a voice, The tender green appears again, And creeping things rejoice; Each warm bank shines with early flowers, Where oft a lonely bee Drones, venturing on in sunny hours, Its humming song to thee. The birds are busy on the wing, The fish play in the stream; And many a hasty curdled ring Crimps round the leaping bream; The buds unfold to leaves apace, Along the hedge-row bowers, And many a child with rosy face Is seeking after flowers. The soft wind fans the violet blue, Its opening sweets to share, And infant breezes, waked anew, Play in the maidens’ hair-- Maidens that freshen with thy flowers, To charm the gentle swain, And dally, in their milking hours, With lovers’ vows again.