THE spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight,
Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light;
The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come;
And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage home.

A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell;
I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell!
Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon,
Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone.

I Could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods,
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the water falls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.

I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right,
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 't were all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.

I could write of the West, mother, — tell many a back woods tale;
But 'Mary Clarets' long ago chanted on that happy trail.
And ' went it with a rush,' mother, as all the world agree,
And made ' a powerful sight' of fun, and left no laugh for me.

I could write on the wars, mother, the soldier's glorious life, —
I sometimes think it is my forte to sing of scenes of strife;
But I 've avowed 'peace principles,' and may not call them back.
So I cannot write of war, mother, — I must take another tack.

The terrible might do, mother, — some wild, unearthly story;
I might ride, for a Pegasus, a nightmare into glory.
But then that 'Raven' there, mother, above that 'chamber-door,'
I asked him if 't would be a hit, — quoth the raven, 'Never more!'

I might plead for the poor, mother, the wronged and the oppressed,
And give a flash of freedom's fire, deep burning in my breast;
But they'd say I was a fanatic, a-battling with weak straws
Against the mighty Union, and the almighty laws.

The fooleries of the beau-monde, mother, should I write on as I feel,
The ladies fair would vote me odd, and not at all genteel;
And ah, the lordly sex, mother, their ire would heaviest fall, —
They'd vow I was a sour old maid, — and that were worse than all!

I think I'll off to bed, mother, — I 'm tired, and then it's late;
The horse I rode this afternoon had such a shocking gait!
So do not early break, mother, my deep and soft repose,
For I love a morning doze, mother, — I love a morning doze.