Song LXIII. Ode to April

MILD as the beauty of fourteen, Meek child of Auster, ope thine eye; Assume thy waving robe of green, Nor fear the blasts that faintly sigh.

Unveil, sweet Nymph, thy timid face, Once more thy dimpled cheek display; With silent step and modest grace, Thro groves and woodlands steal thy way.

There quick unfold the embryo leaf, And wake the warblers' Hyblean song; Chase from the cot the form of grief, And hush the sigh that floats along.

Then trip with frolic step the plain, And throw thy airy mantle wide; Till nature, clad in green again, Exults and laughs on every side.

Next deck the brooks' indented brink With cowslips, pinks and vi'lets gay, And while these flowers thy infl'ence drink, Call forth the kids and lambs to play.

Last, to the garden's purlieus haste, The snowdrops virgin bud unfold; Enclose in green each arid waste, And tinge the crocus' vest with gold.

'Tis done, and all the charms of Spring Descend in mild but copious show'rs; Hark! hear the groves with music ring, Behold the grass, the plants, the flow'rs!

Winds of the North, restrain your breath, Ye frosts, no more your wings expand! Nor unrelenting doom to death These beauteous works of April's hand.

For soon the Nymph will yield her sway Without a sigh or wish to reign, Press'd by her flaunting sister May; Adorn'd with chaplets gay and vain.