Tuesday In Easter Week

Thou first-born of the year's delight,
  Pride of the dewy glade,
In vernal green and virgin white,
  Thy vestal robes, arrayed:

'Tis not because thy drooping form
  Sinks graceful on its nest,
When chilly shades from gathering storm
  Affright thy tender breast;

Nor for yon river islet wild
  Beneath the willow spray,
Where, like the ringlets of a child,
  Thou weav'st thy circle gay;

'Tis not for these I love thee dear -
  Thy shy averted smiles
To Fancy bode a joyous year,
  One of Life's fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon,
  And cheer th' ungenial day,
And tell us, all will glisten soon
  As green and bright as they.

Is there a heart that loves the spring,
  Their witness can refuse?
Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring
  From Heaven their Easter news:

When holy maids and matrons speak
  Of Christ's forsaken bed,
And voices, that forbid to seek
  The hiving 'mid the dead,

And when they say, "Turn, wandering heart,
  Thy Lord is ris'n indeed,
Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,
  And to His presence speed;"

We smile in scorn:  and yet we know
  They early sought the tomb,
Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,
  Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find,
  Wear not so bright a glance:
They, who have won their earthly mind,
  Lees reverently advance.

But where in gentle spirits, fear
  And joy so duly meet,
These sure have seen the angels near,
  And kissed the Saviour's feet.

Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye
  Their faltering tale disdain,
As on their lowly couch they lie,
  Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts
  From Thee would start aloof,
Where Patience her sweet skill imparts
  Beneath some cottage roof:

Revive our dying fires, to burn
  High as her anthems soar,
And of our scholars let us learn
  Our own forgotten lore.