Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil check and whisper soft
She woos 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 sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstacy;
And, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.
-WRITTEN ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
ONCE more, O TRENT! along thy pebbly marge
A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,
From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Woos to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
Oh! to his car how musical the tale
Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!
It was on this, that many a sleepless night,
As, lone, he watch'd the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream,
On this he thought, this, this his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
O GOD! have mercy in this dreadful hour
On the poor mariner !-In comfort here,
Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear
The blast that rages with resistless power.
What were it now to toss upon the waves,
The maddened waves, and know no succour near;
The howling of the storm alone to hear,
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves,
To gaze amid the horrors of the night,
And only see the billows' gleaming light;
And in the dread of death to think of her
Who as she listens sleepless to the gale,
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale!
O God! have mercy on the mariner.
LIKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate,
And in her songs sends many a wishful vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late;
So I alone, now left disconsolate,
Mourne to myself the absence of my Love, And, wand'ring here and there, all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove ;
Ne joy of aught that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight,
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.
Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I miss,
And dead my life, that wants such lively bliss.-SPENSER.
ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE.
SWEET poet of the woods, a long adieu !
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year!
Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew,
And pour thy music on the night's dull ear.
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights await,
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell,
The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well.
With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide
Thro' the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest;
And shepherd-girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird, who sings of pity best:
For still thy voice shall soft affections move,
And still be dear to sorrow, and to love.
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