 | The Slave, and Other Poetical Pieces |  |
40
SPRING.
Ver, mihi quod dedit ingenium, cantabitur illo;
Profuerint isto reddita dona modo.
Milton, Eleg. V.
Profuerint isto reddita dona modo.
Milton, Eleg. V.
Lo! the winter is past; the rain's over and gone;
And bright is the morning of May:
The tender leaves shine as they wave in the sun,
And blithe is the song on the spray.
And bright is the morning of May:
The tender leaves shine as they wave in the sun,
And blithe is the song on the spray.
Shall we roam thro' the thrush-haunted garden, and mark
The bough of the apple how sweet?
Shall we list in the field the shrill note of the lark,
As he floats o'er the green-bladed wheat?
The bough of the apple how sweet?
Shall we list in the field the shrill note of the lark,
As he floats o'er the green-bladed wheat?
41
Shall we watch the young colt, while the herbage he crops,
Or bounds o'er the cowslip-clad mead?
Shall we pluck the white bloom of the thorn from the copse,
Or rob the blue violet's bed?
Or bounds o'er the cowslip-clad mead?
Shall we pluck the white bloom of the thorn from the copse,
Or rob the blue violet's bed?
By the path, thro' the beech-wood that winds, shall we go,
His tale where the nightingale tells,
Where the honey-bee hums, and the wood-sorrels blow,
And the hyacinth hangs his blue bells?
His tale where the nightingale tells,
Where the honey-bee hums, and the wood-sorrels blow,
And the hyacinth hangs his blue bells?
Shall we pause by the brink of the willow-fring'd rill,
The trout's crimson spots to behold?
Or drink the rich gale, as it blows from the hill,
Where the furze shines with blossoms of gold?
The trout's crimson spots to behold?
Or drink the rich gale, as it blows from the hill,
Where the furze shines with blossoms of gold?
42
Wherever we roam, thou art pleasant, O Spring!
The earth wears her loveliest hues,
The birds at thy bidding their roundelays sing,
And thou art the friend of the Muse.
The earth wears her loveliest hues,
The birds at thy bidding their roundelays sing,
And thou art the friend of the Muse.
And oft tho' thy landscape be darken'd by showers,
Yet a gleam of soft sunshine is seen,
While more sweet is the smell from thy garland of flowers,
And more fresh is thy raiment of green.
Yet a gleam of soft sunshine is seen,
While more sweet is the smell from thy garland of flowers,
And more fresh is thy raiment of green.
| The Slave, and Other Poetical Pieces | |