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58 THE EARLY BLUE-BIRD.
Spring's a maid of inirth and glee, Rosy wreaths, and revelry : Hast thou woo'd some winged love To a nest in verdant grove ? Sung to her of greenwood bower, Sunny skies that never lower ? Lur'd her with thy promise fair Of a lot that knows no care ? Prythee, bird, in coat of bine, Though a lover, tell her true.
Ask her, if when storms are long, She can sing a cheerful song ? When the rude winds rock the tree, If she'll closer cling to thee ? Then the blasts that sweep the sky, Unappall'd shall pass thee by ; Tho' thy curtain 'd chamber show Siftings of untimely snow, Warm and glad thy heart shall be, Love shall make it Spring for thee.
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