Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

The Stormy March Has Come At Last, With Winds And Clouds And Changing Skies; I Hear The Rushing Of The Blast That Through The Snowy Valley Flies.

The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And Tints The Buds And Swells The Leaves Within.

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.