| |
| NOW the golden morn aloft | |
| Waves her dew-bespangled wing, | |
| With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft | |
| She wooes the tardy Spring: | |
| Till April starts, and calls around | 5 |
| The sleeping fragrance from the ground; | |
| And lightly o’er the living scene | |
| Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. | |
| |
| New-born flocks, in rustic dance, | |
| Frisking ply their feeble feet; | 10 |
| Forgetful of their wintry trance, | |
| The birds his presence greet: | |
| But chief, the sky-lark warbles high | |
| His trembling thrilling ecstasy; | |
| And, lessening from the dazzled sight, | 15 |
| Melts into air and liquid light. | |
| |
| Yesterday the sullen year | |
| Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; | |
| Mute was the music of the air, | |
| The herd stood drooping by: | 20 |
| Their raptures now that wildly flow, | |
| No yesterday, nor morrow know; | |
| ’Tis man alone that joy descries | |
| With forward, and reverted eyes. | |
| |
| Smiles on past misfortune’s brow | 25 |
| Soft reflection’s hand can trace; | |
| And o’er the cheek of sorrow throw | |
| A melancholy grace; | |
| While hope prolongs our happier hour, | |
| Or deepest shades, that dimly lower | 30 |
| And blacken round our weary way, | |
| Gilds with a gleam of distant day. | |
| |
| Still, where rosy pleasure leads, | |
| See a kindred grief pursue; | |
| Behind the steps that misery treads | 35 |
| Approaching comfort view: | |
| The hues of bliss more brightly glow, | |
| Chastised by sabler tints of woe; | |
| And blended form, with artful strife | |
| The strength and harmony of life. | 40 |
| |
| See the wretch, that long has tost | |
| On the thorny bed of pain, | |
| At length repair his vigour lost, | |
| And breathe, and walk again: | |
| The meanest floweret of the vale, | 45 |
| The simplest note that swells the gale, | |
| The common sun, the air, the skies, | |
| To him are opening Paradise. | |
| |
