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| ’TIS past: the iron North has spent his rage; | |
| Stern Winter now resigns the length’ning day; | |
| The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, | |
| And warm o’er ether western breezes play. | |
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| Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, | 5 |
| From southern climes, beneath another sky, | |
| The sun, returning, wheels his golden course; | |
| Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. | |
| |
| Far to the North grim Winter draws his train | |
| To his own clime, to Zembla’s frozen shore, | 10 |
| Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign, | |
| Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. | |
| |
| Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground | |
| Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, | |
| Again puts on her flowers; and all around, | 15 |
| Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. | |
| |
| Behold, the trees new deck their withered boughs; | |
| Their ample leaves the hospitable plane, | |
| The taper elm, and lofty ash, disclose; | |
| The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. | 20 |
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| The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, | |
| Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun; | |
| The birds on ground or on the branches green, | |
| Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. | |
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| Soon as o’er eastern hills the morning peers, | 25 |
| From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings, | |
| And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers; | |
| Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. | |
| |
| On the green furze, clothed o’er with golden blooms, | |
| That fill the air with fragrance all around, | 30 |
| The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, | |
| While o’er the wild his broken notes resound. | |
| |
| While the sun journeys down the western sky, | |
| Along the greensward, marked with Roman mound, | |
| Beneath the blithesome shepherd’s watchful eye, | 35 |
| The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. | |
| |
| Now is the time for those who wisdom love, | |
| Who love to walk in Virtue’s flowery road, | |
| Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, | |
| And follow Nature up to Nature’s God. | 40 |
| |
| Thus Zoroaster studied Nature’s laws; | |
| Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; | |
| Thus heaven-taught Plato traced th’ almighty Cause, | |
| And left the wond’ring multitude behind. | |
| |
| Thus Ashley gathered academic bays, | 45 |
| Thus gentle Thomson, as the seasons roll, | |
| Taught them to sing the great Creator’s praise, | |
| And bear their poet’s name from pole to pole. | |
| |
| Thus have I walked along the dewy lawn, | |
| My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn, | 50 |
| Before the lark I’ve sung the beauteous dawn, | |
| And gathered health from all the gales of morn. | |
| |
| And even when Winter chilled the agèd year, | |
| I wandered lonely o’er the hoary plain; | |
| Though frosty Boreas warned me to forbear, | 55 |
| Boreas, with all his tempests, warned in vain. | |
| |
| Then, sleep my nights, and quiet blessed my days; | |
| I feared no loss, my mind was all my store; | |
| No anxious wishes e’er disturbed my ease; | |
| Heaven gave content and health—I asked no more. | 60 |
| |
| Now Spring returns; but not to me returns | |
| The vernal joy my better years have known: | |
| Dim in my breast life’s dying taper burns, | |
| And all the joys of life with health are flown. | |
| |
| Starting and shivering in th’ inconstant wind, | 65 |
| Meagre and pale—the ghost of what I was, | |
| Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined, | |
| And count the silent moments as they pass— | |
| |
| The wingèd moments, whose unstaying speed | |
| No art can stop, or in their course arrest, | 70 |
| Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead, | |
| And lay me down in peace with them that rest. | |
| |
| Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;— | |
| And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true: | |
| Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death’s dark gate, | 75 |
| And bid the realms of light and life adieu. | |
| |
| I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; | |
| I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, | |
| The sluggish streams that slowly creep below, | |
| Which mortals visit—and return no more. | 80 |
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| Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! | |
| Enough for me the churchyard’s lonely mound, | |
| Where Melancholy with still Silence reigns, | |
| And the rank grass waves o’er the cheerless ground. | |
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| There let me wander at the shut of eve, | 85 |
| When Sleep sits dewy on the labourer’s eyes,— | |
| The world and all its busy follies leave, | |
| And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. | |
| |
| There let me sleep forgotten in the clay, | |
| When Death shall shut these weary aching eyes,— | 90 |
| Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, | |
| Till the long night is gone, and the last morn arise. | |
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