To the Returning Sun

Welcome, thou glorious spring of light and heat, Where hast thou made thy long retreat? What lands thy warmer beams possest, What happy Indian worlds thy fruitful presence blest? Where deep in the dark bosom of the ground, Thy wondrous operation's found! Even there thy beams the earth refine, And mix and stamp thy lustre through the dazling mine. Since thy retreat so far from our cold isle, She never wore a lovely smile, No joy her wither'd brow adorn'd, In dark unlovely days and in long nights she mourn'd. The poor dejected beasts hung down their heads, And trembled on their naked beds; No footsteps of green life remain, But dying fields and woods, and a bare bleaky plain. The drooping birds were silent in the groves, They quite forgot their songs and loves, Their feeble mates sate sullen by, We thought the feather'd world resolv'd their kind should die But see the land revives at thy approach, She blooms and quickens at thy touch, Her kindled atoms life receive, The meadows, and the groves, begin to stir and live. Mixt with thy beams the southern breezes blow, And help the sprouting births below; The infant flowers in haste appear, And gratefully return perfumes to the kind air. The trees and fields again look fresh and gay, The birds begin their softer play, Thou hast their life, nay more, their love restor'd, Their late and early hymns praise thee, their welcome Lord. The spreading fire glides through the plains and woods, It even pierces the cold floods: The duller brutes feel the soft flame, The fishes leap for joy, and wanton in their stream.