Select Posters.

Colonist, Issue 12, 1 December 1857, Page 4

Select Posters.

WHERE HAST THOU BEEN, MY BEAUTIFUL

SPRING? Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? To the sultry south, on the swallow's wing ; Kissing the little kidnapped slave, Ere borne away on the deep blue wave ; Brushing the tear frotn the mother's cheek, As she wept for her child at Mozambique ? Else whence comest thou with this potent charm, Chaining the windß to the frigid zone, Making the breast of Nature warm, And stilling old Winter's undertone ?

Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? Away with the honey-bee wandering,. Sipping the nectar of famed Cashmere, Sporting amid the Turk's parterre, Quaffing warm Araby's balmy breeze, And. spicy sents of the Ceylonese ? Else whence comest thou with thy odourous breath,

Chaffing the cheek of a rosy bloom, And scattering the poisonous air of death, By flinging abroad a rich perfume?

Where hast theu beon, my beautiful Spring ? Up, 'mid Heaverfs music revelling ? For the tones of thy song from the greenwood bush, The lark in the sky, and the mountain thrush, Speak as if it were given to thee To list to seraphic minstrelsy. Aye, there thou hast been. Not sunny France, Or old Italia's land of song, Can furnish such notes for the poet's dance, As the melody poured from thy musical tongue.

Where hast thou been, my beautiful Spring ? Plucking rich plumes from the parroquet's wing, Robbing the clouds of their rainbow crest, Bathing thyself in the glorious west, Kobing thy form in the peacock's hues, And gathering pearls from the orient dews? Else whence comest thou, with this proud array

Of beauties to sprinkle the russet wood, Those Lent-lilies bending as if to pray, Any hyacinths fringing the marge of the flood?

And tell me whence cometh, my beautiful Spring, Each star of the earth, each odorous thing,

These white-fringed daisies with golden dipped eyes, These butter-cupa gleaming like summer-lit skiea, These violets adorned with rich purples and blue, These primroses fragrant and innocent too ; And lastly, the sweetest and richest, I ween, Of all thy fair daughters, my beautiful Spring, The buddings that stud all thy pathways with green, Say, where were they gathered to shake from thy ■vying?