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THE PROGRESS OF SPRING.
I.The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould, Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea,Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold That trembles not to kisses of the bee:Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves The spear of ice has wept itself away,And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run; The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,
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