WAITING FOR SPRING.
Waiting for• Spring—The mother watching lonely, By her sick child when all the night is dumb ; Hearing no sound but his hoarse breathing only, Saith, " He will rally when the Spring days come."
Waiting for Spring—Ah me ! all nature tarries, As motionless and cold, she lies asleep ; Wrapt in her green pine robe that never varies, Wearing out winter by this Southern deep.
The tints are too unbroken on the bosom Of these great woods,—we want some light green shoots ; We want the white and red acacia blossom, The blue life hid in all these russet roots.
Waiting for Spring—The hearts of men aie watching, Each for some better, brighter, fairer thing ; Each ear a distant sound most sweet is catching, A herald of the beauty of his Spring. Waiting for Spring—The nations in their anger, Or deadlier torpor wrapt, look onward still, Feel a far hope through all their strife and languor, And better spirits in them throb and thrill. Waiting for Spring—Poor hearts, how oft ye weary ! Looking for better things and grieving much ; Earth lieth still, though all her bowers be dreary, She trusts her God, nor thrills but at His touch. It must be so—The man, the soul, the nation, The mother by her child ; we wait, we wait ; Dreaming out futures—life is expectation, A grub, a root that holds our higher state. Waiting for Spring—the germ for its perfection, Earth for all charms by light and colour given ; The body for its robe of resurrection, Souls for their Saviour, Christians for their heaven.
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