Stanzas on the Spring

Now from the southern climes returning spring Breathes fragrant odours o'er th' enamell'd ground, The feather'd warblers flutter on the wing, And with their notes th' embowering woods resound.

The rising sun, when first he gilds the plains, Receives the tribute of the sylvan throng, And Philomela, fraught with tragic strains, Tunes, to the full-orb'd moon, her plaintive song.

Now blithsome Colin, with his oaten reed, Delights the listening swains in glade or grove; While Corydon, in yonder yellow mead, To Amaryllis tells his tale of love.

At evening hour the nymphs and swains advance, And rang'd in order on the plain are seen, In various orbs revolve the rustic dance, And beat with measur'd pace the level green.

The purple violet scents the mossy hill, And rich in bloom the fragrant hawthorn blows; While, near the margin of some brawling rill, The cowslip brightens, and the daisy glows.

The lawns, the mountains, and the vocal woods, The groves with leaves adorn'd, the fields with flowers, The hills, the valleys, and the crystal floods, Rejoice, and seem to hail the vernal hours.

Hark! how the birds in consort raise their notes; And sweetly chant the renovated lay, 'Tis nature's impulse tunes their warbling throats, To hail thee, Flora, goddess of the May.

To thee of old, on fair Ausonia's plains, (With ease and wealth by godlike Titus blest) The blooming virgins, and the jovial swains, Pour'd the full bowl, and pil'd the annual feast.

And still to thee, in fair Britannia's isle, When each revolving year renews the spring; (Beneath great George! while ease and plenty smile) My swelling lyre shall annual tribute bring.

Hail, Flora! goddess, hail! to thee belong Those strains Theocritus of old essay'd; Be thine the lays; be thine the tuneful song Of every British swain, and every beauteous maid.