The Chaffinch. The winter wind howls back to northern seas, And in his stead comes up the western breeze ; And budded leaves break freshly on the trees ; So, chaffinch, sing, A happy, piping pipe, the world to please ; For this is Spring. The youngling birds new in the nest are born ; And fresh with April rain springs up the corn ; White-breasted clouds arise to greet the morn ; So, chaffinch, sing, And pipe thy song, and sit no more forlorn ; For this is Spring. We cannot sing in winter, if we would, As if the frosty time were fair and good ; But winter wind blows bleak by northern flood ; So, chaffinch, sing. Blue-bells are on the hills, the May’s a-bud ; For this is Spring. The summer cuckoo comes to sing his best ; The swallow twits to find the ancient nest ; Black buds break on the ash, the beech is drest In green ; so, sing. Bitter is turned to sweet, our hearts to rest ; For this is Spring. The cressy brooks are purling in the meads ; The plover skims across the crested reeds ; The morning melts the amber-tinted beads Of dew ; so, sing, And say the world no wrecks of winter heeds ; For this is Spring. A sunny welcome o’er the land is sent ; The honey-flowers with early bees are bent ; New leafy boats the fairy fays invent, To sail ; so, sing. Sunny the sunshine is, so rest content ; For this is Spring. Take, chaffinch, take a novel plume, to keep The festive season ; plumage brown and deep, With tips of blue ; the morning air to sweep More gay ; so, sing, And quickly wake the woods from winter sleep ; For this is Spring. Spring, skipping gaily trim by dike and beck, With wreathed wreaths of flowers herself to deck, With lilies fresh hung round her crystal neck, Comes quick ; so, sing. Thy glossy throat no taints of winter speck ; For this is Spring. So pipe, so sing sweet lays, and let the note Trill richly up the ruddy, speckless throat, From hedgerows green, to fill the fields, and float All day ; so, sing, And heal us, heal us all whom winter smote With grief, ere Spring. T. A.