The engladdened Spring, forgetful now to weep, The waking swallow broke her half-year's sleep, With violets; the woods' late wintry head And his bald trees put on their green attire, Among whose infant leaves the joyous birds conspire. And now the taller sons, whom Titan warms, Of unshorn mountains, blown with easy winds, Say, Earth, why hast thou got thee new attire, So never let the spiteful canker waste you, So never let the heavens with lightning blast you! Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide So often wanders from his nearest way, As though some other way thy streams would slide, The while the lambs to hear you dance and play- And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year Gett'st such a numerous issue of thy bride, How chance thou hotter shin'st, and draw'st more near? Sure thou somewhere some worthy sight hast spied, That in one place for joy thou canst not bide : And you, dead swallows, that so lively now, Through the slit air your winged passage row; How could new life into your frozen ashes flow? * Copses. Ye primroses and purple violets, Tell me, why blaze ye from your leafy bed, There should the Earth herself, with garlands new, Such roses never in her garland grew; Such lilies never in her breast she wore; There should the Sun another Sun behold, From whence himself borrows his locks of gold, That kindle Heaven and Earth with beauties manifold. There might the violet and primrose sweet, Beams of more lively and more lovely grace, Arising from their beds of incense, meet; There should the swallow see new life embrace Dead ashes, and the grave unvail his face, To let the living from his bowels creep, Unable longer his own dead to keep; There Heaven and Earth should see their Lord awake from sleep. "Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates, And let the Prince of Glory enter in! At whose brave volley of sidereal states, The sun to blush, and stars grow pale, were seen; When leaping first from earth, he did begin To climb his angel wings: then open hang Your crystal doors!" so all the chorus sang Of heavenly birds, as to the stars they nimbly sprang. Hark! how the floods clap their applauding hands, The wanton mountains dance about the lands, The while the fields, struck with the heavenly light, Set all their flowers a smiling at the sight; The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crown'd The flaming Lamb, breaking through heaven, hath passage found. GILES FLETCHER, 158S-1623. THE AIRS OF SPRING. On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, Thou, if stormy Boreas throws If he blast what's fair or good; THOMAS CAREW, 1600. RETURN OF SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH. God shield ye, heralds of the spring,. Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, Turtles, and every wilder bird, That make your hundred chirpings heard God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Of Ajax and Narciss did print, God shield ye, bright embroider'd train Of each sweet herblet sip; And ye, new swarms of bees, that go A hundred thousand times I call A hearty welcome on ye all: This merry din on every shore, For winds and storms, whose sullen roar Forbade my steps to rove. Anonymous Translation. PIERRE RONSARD, 1524-1586. ODE TO SPRING. Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, And swelling buds are crown'd; From the green islands of eternal youth, O thou whose powerful voice, More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Breathe thine own tender calm. Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await And vales and dewy lawns, With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets That prompts their whispered sigh. Unlock thy copious stores-those tender showers The milky ear's green stem, And feed the flowering osier's early shoots; And call those winds which through the whispering boughs Salute the blowing flowers. Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale; Thy fair, unfolding charms. O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming vail From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; Can aught for thee atone, Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights With softest influence breathes. ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743-1825. THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late past frost's tributes of pleasure bring: Grief melts away, Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. |