Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

The gloomy Winter now has roll'd away,
The caverns of the North again are clos'd,
The murmuring waters now in joyance play,
And golden Spring is to the Earth disclos'd.

2

Hail, sleet, and tempest, a thrice-fatal host,
With which the wracked World has long been torn,
And pitchy darkness, in which Earth was lost,
Have been by the great hand of God forborn.

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3

No more the thunder's awful voice is heard,
With which the monsters of the deep were quell'd,
That voice to wanton pleasure is transferr'd,
And leaves are by the Zephyrs gently swell'd.

4

Or, if it thunders, to the shepherd's ear
That voice is but a prophet's voice of love:
It mazes with delight th' astonied deer,
And checks not in her flight th' unruffled dove.

5

The shepherd to the sounding thunder turns,
And in his mental eye beholds the Sun,
That will relume the Earth, and well discerns,
The World will not be by this flame undone.

6

Yes, Spring is here in her translucent robe,
Of bright vermilion, and love-sorting green;
And all the flowers, that adorn the globe,
With glory in her golden crown are seen.

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7

The Nightingale, amid' the beechen woods,
Awakes the Morn, and sings the day to rest;
In air, in earth, and in the silver floods
One passion, that is love, inflames the breast.

8

Alas! Althea, shall I wake my song
To other themes, than to thy matchless praise?
Shall I not by some fountain lie along,
And warble with delight my perfect lays,

9

In which the beauty of thine eyes is seen,
The soft perfection of thy form display'd;
That even Venus shall confess thee Queen,
And Love shall dance amid' the joyous shade?

10

Not now with the soft lute, and melting lyre,
Your tender praises I design to sing:
Your boundless beauty shall great voice inspire,
Till all the quaking shores with joy shall ring.

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11

Yet love shall be my theme; and love of thee,
For love of thee, Althea, is my life:
Bereft of that, I take in simple fee
Heart-ending sorrow, and undoing strife.

12

Then England is my praise, that matchless fair,
Which bred thee, as the fairest meed of all:
To her alone your beauty I compare,
Which holds th' adoring World in awful thrall.

13

The loveliest Woman, and the fairest Realm,
That ever shone upon the crystal day!
O, let the World with myrtles overwhelm,
And laurels, the soft glory of your sway!

14

Your sway, which undivided shall remain,
And uncompar'd, until the end of time;
Great harm it were, if in my faulted strain
Division should impair your truth sublime.

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15

O England, and Althea, matchless names!
Althea, and fair England is my style:
One serves for both; and to their gentle claims
The World shall yield, and all Creation smile!

16

Then think not, when I praise the beauteous land,
That gave thee, O Althea, to the World,
I fall from thy sweet praise; or understand
My mind, as to the depth of darkness hurl'd.

17

In praising England, I Althea praise:
Althea's praise to England is renown:
They both are like; and in their perfect ways
From the same tree may pluck the blameless crown.

18

Then let the banners kiss the vernal air,
Then let the peerless pipes a measure play:
The temple is in sight; and we prepare
Upon the altar our soft crown to lay!