FROM PLESHEEF.

Ah! who art thou, fair maid, with upland flowers Twined in the glossy silk of golden hair, With smile sunbright, with eyes the dove in hue, With raylike raiment spun from upper air? Who gifted thee with deep mysterious power To heal the aching heart of human woe? At thy approach delights that long lay dead Revive, and once again with glad life glow. To honour thee a hymn doth Nature raise; The babbling brooks and birds in chorus blend; And pinewoods dark, shimmering in every spray, To thee, as to a friend, their arms extend. I’m but a Stranger-Guest, sent from on high To weary souls a draught of peace to bring, To soften wrath, to soothe fierce enmity; I’m but a Stranger-Guest—they call me “Spring.”

Ah! could I but utter in song All the anguish which robs me of peace, Thy sorrow of soul would be stilled, Thy murmur of doubting would cease! I would breathe forth my life, my beloved, As I told all my pain for thy sake; And, bursting in passionate song, My heart in its fulness would break.