THE SPRING BIRD.

BY M. A. D'W. HOWE.

WHEN fancied woes my heart oppress,
And joy my pensive thoughts disown,
No songs dispel my wretchedness;

Scarce grief refrains its plaintive moan. Yet thou, sweet bird, when storms invade, And tempests fill the frowning sky, Canst shake the rain-drops from thy head, And chant thy cheerful minstrelsy!

Though clouds with teeming torrents lower,
The sun his beams reluctant hide,
Thine eye paints verdure on each bower,
And hope creates a summer-tide.
Sweet songster! pour thy note of glee;
Faith shall dispel my spirit's gloom-
Unseal my eyes,--and bid them see

A clime, where flowers perennial bloom!