'TIS past: the iron North has spent his rage; Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, From southern climes, beneath another sky, The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. Far to the north grim Winter draws his train Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Behold the trees new deck their wither'd boughs; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. While the sun journeys down the western sky, Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Thus Zoroaster studied nature's laws; Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; Thus heaven-taught Plato traced the Almighty Cause, And left the wondering multitude behind. Thus Ashley gather'd academic bays; Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise, And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn; My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, And gather'd health from all the gales of morn. And e'en when winter chill'd the aged year, Then, sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days; Heaven gave content and health-I ask'd no more. Now spring returns: but not to me returns Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind, And count the silent moments as they pass: The winged moments, whose unstaying speed Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate; I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve, When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes: The world and all its busy follies leave, And talk with wisdom where my Daphne lies. There let me sleep, forgotten in the clay, When death shall shut these weary aching eyes; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. HAIL Thou messenger of spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Delightful visitant! with thee The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. |