The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1848-05-04
Written for the Voice of Freedom.
SIP Rim G..

How pleasing is the transition from dreary winter
to spring Who does not love to view the prospects
of an opening summer, after long and dreary sea-
son of snow, and storm, and pinching cold? The
faculties, compressed in nutshell, must expand
as nature begins to unfold her beauties and to smile
on herself, and her creatures The breaking of the
ce-bound stream, and the flowing current premon
sh of halcyon days, and scenes of new delight
Earth, dismantled of her 1eecy robe, presents Il
captivating picture;-her dark hills and deep IA
vines-hcr high peaks and wide extended plains,
naked as when into existence they came, in contem-
plation of which, in contrast with her unsightly,
dismal aspect touch the strings of human emotion,
and the soul is awakened 10 holy thought and pure
revere. 1t is by degrees that nature exhibits her
charms. See the hurricane sweeping DER the earth
laying low the tall and stout oak-cveng the man
sion of the prince, with the cottage Of the peasant,
making desolate and sinking in ruin every thing in
contact with its torpedo touch. Suddenly the
blackness of heaven disappears-the roar Of the
driving storm is not heard, only it is echoed from
the mountains, retiring beyond the cliff, to tell its
tale Of woe to other climes How changed--how
suddenly changed! The sun as brightly shines
the air as serene as ever-the wheels of nature run
in their accustomed track and who would know Of
change? No change yet awful change and sudden
ruin. Not so with spring Like the rill that issues
from the mountain in its de>cent-ioinng affinity
with tributary charging gradually till it be-
comes brook, and then river, and finally pours
its chrysta waters into the broad ocean. Spring
first gives us a ray and then pencil, and thus on
till the whole sun of natures beauty sheds its diff
fusive beams Ger the broad earth, exhibiting its
own infinite splendor, the heishth of glory, and
mans happiness.
To trace the loneliness and beauties of Spring
needs the painters brush, Or the minstrels harp
In sober prose the picture is imperfect things,
most beautiful, must be concealed, or at best but
poorly sketched. There is no music in winter but
what is heard in the bowling winds, or in the poor
mans complaint, or in the midnight revcl and de-
bauch. The good man lives, but his "harp is hung
upon the willow-hc cannot sing even one Of Zion's
songs "-every note, that is struck, seems to return
upon the car with sounds of harsh discard
In spring. all nature sings. The wind, the rolling
stream the falling cataract the aerial songsters, the
lowing OK, the sportiye lamb-all are chanting
praises to the great Creator and all are inviting man
to enter in the grand chorus, Praise the Lord for
his wonderful works."
But nature does not arrive at the contamination
of beauty till it is clad in living green. What
prospect is more enchanting what odorS more
sweet ?-what sounds more delightful ?-what deli
cacies more luxurious what stores of intellectual
thou hit more cali be fourd than in natures garden?
Who would not wish it always spring, and never
winter again? b u NJ
Orwell, April IS, ISIS.