 | The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems |  |
108
TO SPRING.
1.
How many lofty bards, sweet Spring,In praise of thee, have swept the string,
With all a poet's fire;
And many more, we must confess,
Have done thee any thing but grace,
On their “mad-jangling lyre.”
2.
Thy zephyrs soft, and purling streams,And showers, and shades, and sunny gleams,
Have all been sung, and sung;
And birds, and buds, and blossomed bowers;
'Till Sappho's art, or Homer's powers
Would fail to paint thee young:
3.
Original, I mean; 'tis therePoor modern poets chiefly err;
Nor their's the fault, but fate's;—
All themes have long been hackneyed o'er;
And nature ransack'd, till she's poor,
For metaphors and epithets.
109
4.
Yet who that sees with Thomson's ken,Or drinks thy beauties from his pen,
Would list a meaner strain;
So, Spring, thou'lt ne'er be sung by me;
I love thee, but I will not be
An echo in thy train.
May, 1822.
| The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems | |