It's very hush and creeping Like parting wings of Seraphim, Who say, "We 've finished here." AH little ranting Johnny, And mouth that smiles so truly, My tricksome Puck, my Robin, One cannot turn a minute, In midst of which your nose is; No matter how unstable, And turning up your quaint eye And half-shut teeth with "Mayn't I?" Or else you 're off at play, John, Just as you'd be all day, John, With hat or not, as happens, And there you dance, and clap hands, Or plucking flow'rs, or bowling, With "What a young rogue this is !" Ah rogue! and do you know, John, Do what you like and pet ye, And in the midst of pleasure But see, the sun shines brightly; And, when we home must jog, you SUDDEN FINE WEATHER. READER! what soul that loves a verse, can see The spring return, nor glow like you and me ? Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill, Nor long to utter his melodious will? This, more than ever, leaps into the veins, When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains, And coming with a burst, comes like a show, Blue all above, and basking green below. And all the people culling the sweet prime: Then issues forth the bee to clutch the thyme, And the bee poet rushes into rhyme. } For lo! no sooner has the cold withdrawn, Than the bright elm is tufted on the lawn; The merry sap has run up in the bowers, And burst the windows of the buds in flowers; With song the bosoms of the birds run o'er, The cuckoo calls, the swallow 's at the door, And apple-trees at noon, with bees alive, Burn with the golden chorus of the hive. Now all these sweets, these sounds, this vernal blaze, Is but one joy, express'd a thousand ways: And honey from the flowers, and song from birds, Are from the poet's pen his overflowing words. Ah friends! methinks it were a pleasant sphere, If, like the trees, we blossom'd every year; If locks grew thick again, and rosy dyes Return'd in cheeks, and raciness in eyes, And all around us, vital to the tips, The human orchard laugh'd with cherry lips! Lord! what a burst of merriment and play, Fair dames, were that! and what a first of May! So natural is the wish, that bards gone by Have left it, all, in some immortal sigh ! And yet the winter months were not so well : Who would like changing, as the seasons fell? Fade every year; and stare, midst ghastly friends, With falling hairs, and stuck-out fingers' ends? Besides, this tale of youth that comes again, Is no more true of apple-trees than men. The Swedish sage, the Newton of the flow'rs, Who first found out those worlds of paramours, Tells us, that every blossom that we see Boasts in its walls a separate family; So that a tree is but a sort of stand, That holds those filial fairies in its hand; Just as Swift's giant might have held a bevy Of Lilliputian ladies, or a levee. It is not he that blooms: it is his race, Who honour his old arms, and hide his rugged face. Ye wits and bards then, pray discern your duty, And learn the lastingness of human beauty. Your finest fruit to some two months may reach : I've known a cheek at forty like a peach. Here's a bee But see the weather calls me. |