Anna Seward
Spring.
In April's gilded morn when south winds blow,
And gently shake the hawthorn's silver crown,
Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,
The dewy shelter of the bounding Doe,
Then, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show
Their palely-yellowing flowers;—to the moist Sun
Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown,
Plighted to riper May;—and lavish flow
The Lark's loud carols in the wilds of air.
O! not to Nature's glad Enthusiast cling
Avarice, and pride.—Thro' her now blooming sphere
Charm'd as he roves, his thoughts enraptur'd spring
To Him, who gives frail Man's appointed time
These cheering hours of promise, and of prime.