April. an Ode

To woo green April, lo the sun That very form (which Jove put on To bear Europa from her native land) Assumes to win the queen of showers! A new-blown primrose decks her hand, Her taper waist a zone of flowers; Like a young widow she appears Shining thro' shades, and beautiful in tears.

Now genial nature every seed Opens to grace the vernal mead, The lark now ventures up the sapphire skies, Tho' Zephyr shakes his madid wing, Yet warmth awakes the embryo flies To creep, and meet parental spring: When lo! a shower of drizzling rain, Or drowns, or drives them to their nests again!

Prolific mists o'er every rill Preside, and shade the distant hill; A tepid moisture gladdens every root, The husbandmen now pole and bind The hops, and bid the tendrils shoot, Thus guarded from the southern wind, While every vegetative power Imbibes young April's soft balsamic shower.

Mark! how each month's unwearied toil Successive cloaths, or strips the soil! From heat to cold they traverse thro' the sky, And yet unerring is the plan, And regular from hot to dry The calendar of social man! In no one track the steps appear, Yet all to one united centre steer.