I COME, I come! ye have called me long-
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass.

2

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers,

And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains;—
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,
To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

3

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung all his tassels forth,
The fisher is out on the sunny sea,

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,

For Biography, see p. 51.

And the pine has a fringe of softer green,

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been.

4

I have sent through the wood-paths a growing sigh,
And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky;
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time,
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime,

To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes,
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.

5

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain,
They are sweeping on to the silvery main,

They are flashing down from the mountain brows,
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,
And the earth resounds, with the joy of waves!

6

Come forth, O ye children of gladness! come!
Where the violets lie may be now your home.
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye,
And the bounding footstep to meet me fly!
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay,
Come forth to the sunshine-I may not stay.

HELPS TO STUDY
Notes and Questions

How may the steps of spring be traced?

How does the wind tell that the violets are in bloom?

Read the lines from the second stanza which tell where spring has been and the result of her visit there.

trace to follow by some mark, foosteps, or tracks.
rê-sounds'-to throw back the sound; to echo.
spray-water or other liquid flying in small drops.

Clara Smith is not a well-known writer, but her poem "Jack in the Pulpit' is full of beauty.

JACK in the pulpit

Preaches today,

Under the green trees

Just over the way.

Squirrel and song-sparrow,
High on their perch,
Hear the sweet lily-bells
Ringing to church.

Come hear what his reverence

Rises to say

In his low, painted pulpit

This calm Sabbath day.

2

Meek-faced anemones,
Drooping and sad;
Great yellow violets,
Smiling out glad;
Buttercups' faces,

Beaming and bright;
Clovers with bonnets,

Some red and some white; Daisies, their white fingers Half-clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of

The gold of their hair; Innocents, children

Guileless and frail, Meek little faces

Upturned and pale; Wildwood geraniums, All in their best, Languidly leaning,

In purple gauze dressedAll are assembled

This sweet Sabbath day To hear what the priest

In his pulpit will say.