A HERALD.

Ere the Spring comes near O'er the smoking hills, Stirring a million rills To laughter low and clear Till winds are hushed to hear,—

Ere the eaves at noon Thaw and drip, there flies A herald thro' the skies With promise of a boon— Of birds and blossoms soon.

Subtle though it be, Yet sweetly sure that word; E'en such my heart hath heard (Over life's frosty lea) Of Immortality.