Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse

April

Eliza Lanesford Cushing (17947–1886)

HARK to the silvery sound

Of the soft April shower!

Telleth it not a pleasant tale

Of bird and bee and flower?

See, as the bright drops fall,

How swell the tiny buds

That gem each bare and leafless bough

Like polished agate studs.

The alder by the brook

Stands in her tasselled pride;

Oh, the pale willow decketh her

As might beseem a bride;

And round the old oak’s foot,

Where in their wintry play

The winds have swept the withered leaves,

See, the Hepatica!

Its brown and mossy buds

Greet the first breath of Spring;

And to her shrine its clustered flowers

Their earliest offering bring.

In rocky cleft secure,

The gaudy columbine

Shoots forth, ere wintry snows have fled,

A floral wreath to twine.

And many a bud lies hid

Beneath the foliage sere,

Waiting spring’s warm and wooing breath

To deck the vernal year,

When, lo! sweet April comes—

The wild bird hears her voice,

And through the groves on glancing wing

Carols, ‘Rejoice! rejoice!’

Forth from her earthy nest

The timid wood-moose steals,

And the blithe squirrel on the bough

Her genial influence feels.

The purple hue of life

Flushes the teeming earth;

Above, around, beneath the feet,

Joy, beauty, spring to birth.

But on the distant verge

Of the cerulean sky

Old Winter stands with angry frown

And bids the siren fly.

He waves his banner dark,

Raises his icy hand,

And the fierce storms of sleet and hail

Obey his grim command.

She feareth not his wrath,

But hides her sunny face

Behind a soft cloud’s fleecy fold

For a brief instant’s space;

Then looketh gaily forth

With smile of magic power,

That changeth all his icy darts

To a bright diamond shower.

Capricious April, hail!

Herald of all things fair!

’Tis thine to loose the imprisoned streams,

The young buds are thy care.

To unobservant eye

Thy charms are few, I ween;

But he who roves the woodland paths

Where thy blithe foot hath been,

Will trace thee by the tufts

Of fragrant early flowers,

That thy sweet breath hath waked to deck

The dreary forest bowers;

And by the bursting buds,

That at thy touch unfold

To clothe the tall trees’ naked arms

With beauty all untold;

Will hear thy tuneful voice

In the glad leaping streams,

And catch thy bland, yet fitful smile

In showers and sunny gleams;—

Then welcome, April fair,

Bright harbinger of May,

Month of blue skies and perfumed airs—

The young year’s holiday!