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TO SPRING.

SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire, Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring! Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crown'd;

From the green islands of eternal youth [shade), (Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,
And through the stormy deep

Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired 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 flowering osier's early shoots;
And call those winds which through the whisper-

ing 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, through the cool moist air Throws his young maiden beams,

And with chaste kisses woos

The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade Protects 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 flowerets all
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O, not all that 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 through the heart Each joy and new born hope

With softest influence breathes.

MRS. BARBAULD.

TO SPRING.

HENCE, Winter, gloomy power!

Beneath thine iron rod we groan too long;
Nor vernal sight nor song

Hath yet awoke to soothe the lagging hour.

Go, with thy loathed band,

Where hills of ice and snowy mountains rise,

Whose strength the sun defies :

There, amid dismal caves and icy thrones,

Dispense thine horrid frowns;

[land.

While storms and hail and wind for ever fill the

But come, soft Spring! no more delay
To bless us with thy genial sway!
Thy beams have yet but faintly shone,
By storms and darkness soon o'erblown;
No fostering warmth they yet have shed
To wake the verdure of the mead;
To ope the primrose' wild perfume,
Or rear to life the violet's bloom.
Then come, sweet nymph, with fixed pace!
The tyrant shall with fearful face
Behold far off thy steady beams,

And haste away his ragged teams.
O, come, thou queen of gay delights,
Though late, to bless our longing sights!
Flowers shall spring up beneath thy way,
And earth and air and seas be gay.
Adown the mountain's woody side
The tumbling torrent shall subside;
And the whistling wind no more
Through the castle's turrets roar;
But rills shall lulling music keep,
And spires and battlements shall peep

With glittering hue amid the shade;

While shepherds' pipes shall from the glade

Echo sweet; and virgins gay,

With fresh-bloom'd cheeks, to hear them play,

Shall issue from the castle's bounds,

And dance to thee their merry rounds.

On shadowy greens to thee the Fays
Shall there a moonlight altar raise;
And there, by Cynthia's paly ray,
Will I to thee my orgies pay!—
Meads shall smile; the frisking flock
Shall bleat from valley and from rock;
And oft at fold their tinkling bell
Shall wake the poet's pensive shell;
To thee by twilight he shall sing,
Soothed by the air soft-murmuring.
At morn, from furrow'd lands afar,
Ploughmen's songs shall tend thy car;
And the woodman's echoing stroke,
That too often hath awoke

The genius of the deepen'd wood
From the still shades of his abode.
But, within the fertile vale,
Dasied pastures shall not fail,
With flowerets wild of every hue,
To ope their blossoms to thy view;
While the steeple-bells shall ring,
And down the wave their echoes fling,
Which, soften'd by the warbling wind,
With ecstasies shall fill the mind.
In yonder pansied meadow's bound,
With hill and wood enclosed around,
My love and I will wildly stray,
To pick each flower that drinks thy ray.
May her enchanting form no fate,
Like that unhappy maid's, await,
Whom gloomy Dis by force convey'd
To his low region's dismal shade!
For she, sad nymph, had only stray'd
To bask amid thy fragrant blooms,
And fill her lap with thy perfumes,

When he, black God! with grim delight,
Bore the wild maid to endless night.
Ah, no! I never will profane

With gloomy fears thy Joyous reign;
But, while this youthful blood shall sport
Within my veins, I thee will court;
The pleasures of thy train will join,
And hail thy blooming nymphs divine;
To them my tales of love repeat,
And mark how thy prolific heat
On their soft cheeks bids blushes rise,
And sheds sweet languor o'er their eyes.
If hoary locks my temples shade,
Ere in the peaceful grave I'm laid,
Then may I haunt the rural hall,

Round which the rooks, with clamorous call, To thee their early rites begin,

Far from the peopled city's din;

And waked by them, at dawning day,
Watch how the buds their leaves display;
And soothed by them, when eve shall come,
Mark their thick flocks returning home!
Awhile contentious strife and noise
And loud complaint their rest destroys;
But by degrees the tumults close,
The murmurs sink to calm repose.
While thus I watch them to their nest,
Soothed by soft sympathy to rest,
Sweet slumbers o'er mine eyes will creep,
And in mild dreams my fancy steep.
Thus, Spring, with thee I'll pass my day,
Thus soothe my evening hours away;
Thus, as I totter on life's brink,
To my last slumbers softly sink.

SIR E. BRYDGES.

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