On The Sight Of Spring.

How sweet it us'd to be, when April first Unclos'd the arum-leaves, and into view Its ear-like spindling flowers their cases burst, Beting'd with yellowish white or lushy hue: Though manhood now with such has small to do, Yet I remember what delight was mine When on my Sunday walks I us'd to go, Flower-gathering tribes in childish bliss to join; Peeping and searching hedge-row side or woods, When thorns stain green with slow unclosing buds. Ah, how delighted, humming on the time Some nameless song or tale, I sought the flowers; Some rushy dyke to jump, or brink to climb, Ere I obtain'd them; while from hasty showers Oft under trees we nestled in a ring, Culling our "lords and ladies."--O ye hours! I never see the broad-leav'd arum spring Stained with spots of jet; I never see Those dear delights which April still does bring, But memory's tongue repeats it all to me. I view her pictures with an anxious eye, I hear her stories with a pleasing pain: Youth's wither'd flowers, alas! ye make me sigh, To think in me ye'll never bloom again.