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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
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;
Forgetful
of their wintry trance
The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the skylark warbles high
His trembling
thrilling ecstasy;
And, lessening from the dazzled
sight,
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:
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
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 lour
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
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.
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,
The simplest note
that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the
skies,
To him are opening Paradise.
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