While with each bitter memory the torrent o'er us rolls.

Even as our zephyrs sing
That they bring us in the Spring,
Even as our bird grows musical in ecstasy of flight--
We see the serpent crawl,
With his slimy coat o'er all,
And blended with the song is the hissing of his blight.

We shudder at the blooms,
Which but serve to cover tombs--
At the very sweet of odors which blend venom with the breath;
Sad shapes look out from trees,
And in sky and earth and breeze,
We behold but the aspect of a Horror worse than Death!

South Carolinian.




Spring.

By Henry Timrod.



Spring, with that nameless pathos in the air
Which dwells with all things fair,
Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,