And feed the flowering osier's early shoots; And call those winds which through the whispering boughs Salute the blowing flowers. Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale; Thy fair, unfolding charms. O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming vail From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; Can aught for thee atone, Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights With softest influence breathes. ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD, 1743-1825. THE FLOWER. How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean Are thy returns! ev'n as the flow'rs in spring; To which, besides their own demean, The late past frost's tributes of pleasure bring: Grief melts away, Like snow in May, As if there were no such cold thing. Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart To see their mother-root, when they have blown; All the hard weather, Dead to the world, keep house unknown. These are thy wonders, Lord of power! Thrilling and quick'ning, bringing down to hell, Making a chiming of a passing bell. This or that is: Thy word is all, if we would spell. Oh, that I once past changing were Fast in thy Paradise, where no flow'r can wither! Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither: Want a spring-shower, My sins and I joining together. But while I grow in a straight line, Still upward bent, as if heav'n were mine own, What frost to that? What pole is not the zone, When thou dost turn, And the least frown of thine is shown? And now in age I bud again; After so many deaths I live and write, That I am he, On whom thy tempests fell all night! These are thy wonders, Lord of love! To make us see we are but flow'rs that glide; Which, when we once can find and prove, Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride, GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1182. ODE. FROM THE TURKISH. Hear! how the nightingales on every spray, What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air! E'en death, perhaps, our valleys will invade. The tulip now its varied hue displays, And sheds, like Ahmed's eye, celestial rays. Ah! nature, ever faithful, ever true, The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue! Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade ? Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade! : The sparkling dew-drops o'er the lilies play, The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb's cheek appears, See! yon anemones their leaves unfold, With rubies gleaming, and with living gold: While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend, Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend : Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa's laid, Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade! The plants no more are dried, the meadow dead; Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose's bloom, Be this our wealth; ye damsels ask no more, The dew-drops sprinkled by the musky gale, Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade! Late gloomy winter chilled the sullen air, Till Soliman arose, and all was fair. May this rude lay, from age to age remain, From the Turkish of MESIHI. TO SPRING. Alas. delicious Spring! God sends thee down SPRING. With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down Of their quick-leaping people; the fresh lark TO SPRING. FROM THE DANISH. 75 H. MILMAN. Thy beams are sweet, beloved spring! The bough smiles green, the young birds sing, Till countless flowers like stars illume O welcome, gentle guest from high, To kindle nature's social glow! O, he is o'er his fellows blest Peace to the generous heart essaying Nor fears her cold and wintry days: Thou glorious goal, that shin'st afar, And seem'st to smile us on our way, There shall we meet, this dark world o'er, Translation of W. S. WALKER. THOMAS THAARUP, 1749-1-21. |