THE AIRS OF SPRING. Sweetly breathing, vernal air, On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, Thou, if stormy Boreas throws If he blast what's fair or good; THOMAS CAREW, 1600. RETURN OF SPRING. FROM THE FRENCH. God shield ye, heralds of the spring, Houps, cuckoos, nightingales, Turtles, and every wilder bird, That make your hundred chirpings heard God shield ye, Easter daisies all, Of Ajax and Narciss did print, Ye wild thyme, anise, balm, and mint, I welcome ye once more. God shield ye, bright embroider'd train Of each sweet herblet sip; And ye, new swarms of bees, that go A hundred thousand times I call- This season how I love! This merry din on every shore, For winds and storms, whose sullen roar Forbade my steps to rove. Anonymous Translation. PIERRE RONSARD, 1524-1586. ODE TO SPRING. Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire, And swelling buds are crown'd; From the green islands of eternal youth, O thou whose powerful voice, More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Breathe thine own tender calm. Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await And vales and dewy lawns, With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets That prompts their whispered sigh. Unlock thy copious stores-those tender showers The milky ear's green stem, 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 woo8 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, And up to heaven in an hour; Making a chiming of a passing bell. We say amiss, 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, Thy anger comes, and I decline : 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. Who would be more, Swelling through store, Forfeit their Paradise by their pride, GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1632. 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! The sparkling dew-drops o'er the lilies play, The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb's cheek appears, See! yon anemones their leaves unfold, 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! |