SEE, waked by stormy Winter's parting wing,
Smiling, 'mid flowers, comes on the purple Spring;
While verdant herbage crowns the dusky earth,
And new-leaved plants are joying, in their birth;
While fertilizing dews refresh the ground;
And early roses bloom and blush, around.
Glad, o'er the hills, the shepherd's pipe we hear,
Where snow-white flocks, in frolic mirth, career:
Cheerly, his ocean-path, the seaman hails,
While favouring zephyrs fill his swelling sails:
The Bacchants now, with clustering ivy, crowned,
Invoke the genial god, with jocund sound:
Their cells of purest wax, prepared with skill,
The careful bees, with dripping nectar, fill:
Now, wake the feathered tribes, their tuneful notes;
The queen-like swan, as down the stream she floats;
The halcyon, hunter of old Ocean's coves;
The swallow, twittering from the roof, he loves;
And Philomel, enchantress of the groves.
And say, while leaves, and buds, and flowers rejoice,
And teeming earth lifts up her glorious voice;
While shepherds warble their delighted lay,
And well-fleeced flocks their sportive gambols, play;
While seamen shout, and Bacchants, joyous, throng,
And bees, their labour, ply, and birds, their song:
Shall I, no strain, to earth's glad chorus, bring
Shame to the Son of Song, that hails not thee, O Spring!

Project Canterbury