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SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire, Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring! Whose unshorn locks with leaves And swelling buds are crowned; From the green islands of eternal youth, (Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,) Turn, hither turn thy step, O thou, whose powerful voice More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds, And thro' the stormy deep Breathe thy own tender calm. Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove Thy blooming wilds among, And vales and dewy lawns, With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow Of him, the favour'd youth That prompts their whisper'd sigh. Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds, And silent dews that swell The milky ear's green stem. And feed the slowering osier's early shoots; And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs With warm and pleasant breath Salute the blowing flowers. Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. O nymph approach! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woes The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade Protect thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short; The red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe Thy greens, thy flow'rets all, Remorseless shall destroy. Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel; For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains, Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits, Can aught for thee atone Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart Each joy and new-born hope With softest influence breathes.
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When life as opening buds is sweet, And golden hopes the fancy greet, And Youth prepares his joys to meet,- Alas! how hard it is to die! When just is seized some valued prize, And duties press, and tender ties Forbid the soul from earth to rise,- How awful then it is to die! When, one by one, those ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, And man is left alone to mourn,- Ah then, how easy 'tis to die! When faith is firm, and conscience clear, And words of peace the spirit cheer, And visioned glories half appear,- 'Tis joy, 'tis triumph then to die. When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,- 'Tis nature's precious boon to die.
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'Tis past! we breathe! assuaged at length The flames that drank our vital strength! Smote with intolerable heat No more our throbbing temples beat. How clear the sky, how pure the air, The heavens how bright, the earth how fair! The bosom cool, the spirits light, Active the day, and calm the night! But O, the swiftly shortening day! Low in the west the sinking ray! With rapid pace advancing still “The morning hoar, the evening chill,” The falling leaf, the fading year, And Winter ambushed in the rear! Thus, when the fervid Passions cool, And Judgement, late, begins to rule; When Reason mounts her throne serene, And social Friendship gilds the scene; When man, of ripened powers possest, Broods o'er the treasures of his breast; Exults, in conscious worth elate, Lord of himself—almost of fate; Then, then declines the' unsteady flame, Disease, slow mining, saps the frame; Cold damps of age around are shed, That chill the heart, and cloud the head. The failing spirits prompt no more, The curtain drops, life's day is o'er.
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When sickness clouds the languid eye, And seeds of sharp diseases fly Swift through the vital frame; Rich drugs are torn from earth and sea, And balsam drops from every tree, To quench the parching flame. But oh! what opiate can assuage The throbbing breast's tumultuous rage, Which mingling passions tear! What art the wounds of grief can bind, Or soothe the sick impatient mind Beneath corroding care! Not all the potent herbs that grow On purple heath, or mountain's brow, Can banished peace restore; In vain the spring of tears to dry, For purer air or softer sky We quit our native shore. Friendship, the richest balm that flows, Was meant to heal our sharpest woes, But runs not always pure; And Love—has sorrows of his own, Which not an herb beneath the moon Is found of power to cure. Soft Pity, mild dejected maid, With tenderest hand applies her aid To dry the frequent tear; But her own griefs, of finer kind, Too deeply wound the feeling mind With anguish more severe.
