On the SPRING

The mounting Sun with gladsome Ray Makes wanton Nature smile; Each Field looks green, each Garden gay, And Birds rejoice the while.

The surly Winter's now no more, The lovely Spring prevails; No Tempests dash the sounding Shore, Or burst the rending Sails.

Soft Breezes, breathing through the Grove, Already deck'd in Green, Invite the Thrush and Turtle Dove With Philomel their Queen.

In Lays of Love they waste the Day, While she enchants the Night; Her Bosom leaning on some Spray, To give the Gloom delight.

The smiling Shepherd now beholds With Joy his teeming Flocks, And drives them bleating to their Folds, Amid the vocal Rocks.

The lusty Swain with Rapture steals By yonder friendly Shade, Where with Love Songs and soothing Tales He charms the list'ning Maid.

Since Flora now her Mantle throws On that tall Mountain's Head, So lately crown'd with Winter's Snows, By surly Boreas shed:

To Phoebus' Praise let Poets sing, And sweep their joyful Lyres, Whose chearful Beam restores the Spring, And ev'ry Bard inspires.