But haste we!—'Tis that merry time of year, Once more brought round upon our whirling sphere, (The days of darkness and of snow gone past, Of chilly sunbeams and the freezing blast), When eager skylarks at the gate of morn Sing, while the human sower of the corn Plods his brown field below; the noisy rooks Hold council in the grove-top; shelter'd nooks Bring forth young primroses and violets, The woodland swarms with buds, the ash-tree sets Dark lace upon his bough, with tenderest green The larch-spray tufted, pallid leaflets seen Unfolded and uncrumpling day by day. Nigh Croghan Hall the herons lean and gray Hover and float upon those wide-spread wings Around their lofty cradles, with the Spring's Breath rocking slowly; braird is pushing through; The clever mavis and the soft cuckoo Untiring sing their olden songs anew. |