The Press., 1884-03-06
Issued Every Thursday Evening.
Spring..

In the lanQ where the orange trees grow Do you lovethe green bowers where the bright birds sing ... And the south winds. are whispering low?
 Oh, fair maiden, haste
 To the cold northern shore,
 And the beauty laid waste
 By stern winter, restore! She has come, she has come from the orange bowers, Where her love notes the mocking- bird sings, And you dream of green fields and sweet sum- ny hours, From the incense she bears on her wings.
 She calls in the morning,
 And whispers at night,
 And her voice is the warning
 For old winters flight. So gently she fans the young buds on the trees, And over them throws her warm spell, That slowly they open their leaves to the breeze, And verdure clothes forest and dell.
 She weeps o'er the earth
 In sweet April showers,
 And her tears give birth
 To the bright May flowers. She loosens the chains from the springs and the fountains, And breathes on the ice and the snow; And streamlets run down from the sides of the mountains, And water the valleys below.
 In the meadow she treads
 With her soft velvet feet,
 And a green carpet spreads
 Where the bright waters meet. She kisses the flowers in her path as she flies, With love-kiss, that thrills through the heart, And, smiling, they open their beautiful eyes, And their treasures of fragrance impart.
 Oh, fair to behold
 Is the angel of Spring,
 That paints with bright gold .F On the butterfy's wing! An artist is she of most wonderful power, For she paints not the insect alone, But tinges the sky, and the delicate flowers, And gives to the landscape it's tone.
 Oh, paint on this heart,
 Maid of beauty and grace,
 That it may not depart
 Thine own lovely face! s To! far in the east, what gorgeous display Of her most brilliant colors is seen, When chasing the shadows, she leads in the day,
 To rejoice in the light of her sheen.
 Then the lark, soaring high,
 Shakes the dew from her wings; ; And the sweet robin nigh,
 Her gay carol sings. She paints in the forest with purple and red ;; In the orchard with damask and white And throws OCT the garden and violet bed, A profusion of coloring bright.
 And see in the vest
 What a beautiful glow
 As the sun sinks to rest
 In the ocean below. A chorister too, is the maiden of Spring; But she tunes not the harp nor the Tyre, But teaches the birds in the greenwood to sing In Natures harmonious choir.
 At the close of the day, The hill and the vale
 Resound with the lay
 Of the sweet nightingale There's music sublime when the deep thun- ders roll, And the echoes reverberate loud Iris the voice of Jehovah, that speaks to tine soul,
 From behind the thick veil of the cloud.
 Then the birds of the air,
 And the beasts from the plain,
 To their shelter repair,
 And in silence remain. When on storm-clouds she rides through the sky; And the waters descending from heaven ap- To burst from an ocean on high. Oh, list to the rain,
 When the thunder's loud crash
 Wakes the echoes again,
 And the red ightnings fash. Now hushed is the tumult-the tempesti is o'er- The rainbow in heaven is seen The maiden is smiling in beauty once more, And all nature is calm and serene.
 So sweet OCT your life
 Dawns eternity's day,
 When it's tempests and strife } Have all passed away. Then sing to the maiden-the sweet, gentle Spring A song of affection and greeting, For soon for journey she'll plume her bright wing, And summer come rapidly f1eeting. Now blest are the hours, Before she departs; And may her sweet flowers Ever bloom in your hearts.