I.

WHAT shalt THOU know of Spring? A verdant crown 
Of young boughs waving o'er thy blooming head: 
White tufted Guelder-roses, showering down 
A fairy snow-path where thy footsteps tread: 
Fragrance and balm,--which purple violets shed: 
Wild-birds,--sweet warbling in commingled song: 
Brooklets,--thin murmuring down their pebbly bed; 
Or more abundant rivers,--swept along 
With shoals of tiny fish, in many a silver throng! 
II.

To THEE shall be unknown that weary pain, 
The feverish thirsting for a breath of air,-- 
Which chokes the heart of those who sigh in vain 
For respite, in their round of toil and care: 
Who never gaze on Nature fresh and fair, 
Nor in sweet leisure wile an hour away; 
But, like caged creatures, sullenly despair, 
As day monotonously follows day, 
Till youth wears on to age, and strength to faint decay. 
III.

A feeble girl sits working all alone! 
A ruined Farmer's orphan; pale and weak; 
Her early home to wealthier strangers gone, 
No rural beauty lingers on her cheek; 
Her woe-worn looks a woeful heart bespeak; 
Though in her dull, and rarely lifted eye, 
(Whose glances nothing hope, and nothing seek,) 
Those who have time for pity, might descry 
A thousand shattered gleams of merriment gone by! 
IV.

Her window-sill some sickly plants adorn, 
(Poor links to memories sweet of Nature's green!) 
There to the City's smoke-polluted morn 
The primrose lifts its leaves, with buds between, 
'Minished and faint, as though their life had been 
Nipped by long pining and obscure regret; 
Torn from the sunny bank where erst were seen 
Lovely and meek companions, thickly set,-- 
The cowslip, rich in scent, and humble violet! 
V.

Too fanciful! the plant but pines, like her, 
For purer air; for sunbeams warm and kind; 
Th' enlivening joy of nature's busy stir, 
The rural freedom, long since left behind! 
For the fresh woodlands,--for the summer wind,-- 
The open fields with perfumed clover spread;-- 
The hazel copse,--whose branches intertwined 
Made natural bow'rs and arches overhead, 
With many a narrow path, where only two could tread. 
VI.

Never, oh! never more, shall these afford 
Her stifled heart their innocent delight! 
Never, oh! never more, the rich accord 
Of feathered songsters make her morning bright! 
Earning scant bread, that finds no appetite, 
The sapless life she toils for, lingers on; 
And when at length it sinks in dreary night, 
A shallow, careless grave is dug,--where none 
Come round to bless her rest, whose ceaseless tasks are done! 
VII.

And now, the devious threads her simple skill 
Wove in a quaint device and flowery line, 
Adorn some happier maid, whose wayward will 
Was struck with wishing for the fair design: 
Some 'curléd darling' of a lordly line, 
Whose blooming cheek, through veils of texture rare, 
Mantling with youth's warm blood is seen to shine; 
While her light garments, draped with modest care, 
Soft as a dove's white wings, float on the breezy air. 
VIII.

Oh, there is need for permanent belief 
In the All-Equal World of Joy to come! 
Need for such solace to the restless grief 
And heavy troubles of our earthly home! 
Else might our wandering reason blindly roam, 
And ask, with all a heathen's discontent, 
Why Joy's bright cup for some should sparkling foam, 
While others, not less worthy, still lament, 
And find the cup of tears the only portion sent! 
IX.

But for the Christian's hope, how hard, how cold, 
How bitterly unjust, our lot would seem! 
How purposeless and sad, to young and old! 
How like the struggles of a torturing dream, 
When ghastly midnight bids us strive and scream! 
All fades--all fleets--of which our hearts grow fond; 
Pain presses on us to the last extreme,-- 
When lo! the dawn upriseth, clear beyond, 
And, radiant from the East, forbids us to despond. 
X.

And many a crippled child, and aged man, 
And withered crone, who once saw 'better days,' 
With just enough of intellect to scan 
This gracious truth; uncheered by human praise, 
Patient plods through the thorn-encumbered ways: 
Oh, trust God counts the hours through which they sigh, 
While His green Spring eludes their suffering gaze, 
And flowers along Earth's spangled bosom lie, 
Whose barren bloom, for them, must unenjoyed pass by! 
XI.

So lives the little Trapper underground; 
No glittering sunshine streaks the oozy wall; 
Not e'en a lamp's cold glimmer shineth round 
Where he must sit (through summer days and all, 
While in warm upper air the cuckoos call,) 
For ever listening at the weary gate 
Where echoes of the unseen footsteps fall. 
Early he comes, and lingers long and late, 
With savage men, whose blows h