‘Tis Spring, and Nature’s form is seen
Attired in robes of fairest hue;
Her mantle green, how bright its sheen.
And gemmed with drops of pearly dew.
Her voice of love — her voice of love,
How soft it streams from every hill!
How sweet the note that seems to float
From every murmuring, weeping rill!
There’s not a flower in rosy bower
That lifts its modest, blushing head,
And steals a kiss of dewy bliss
From Morning’s lip of glowing red—
There’s not a lovely saffron tint
That paints the couch of dying Day—
There’s not a star that beams afar,
And lights retiring Eve away—
There’s not a tone by Seraphs blown
To which the ear of Fancy listens—
There’s not a bead of early dew
That on the fragrant myrtle glistens—
There’s not a breeze that through the trees
Low sighs the requiem of day —
But worship brings, and praises sings
To Nature’s God in Nature’s way.
Her voice of love is heard above
Though mortal sense despise her tongue,
Her Maker’s ear bows down to hear
Her matin and her vesper song.
Though mortal eye may not descry
The native charms of her sweet face;
Her Maker’s eye is ever nigh,
To note each beauty and each grace.
by John Girardeau