But yet, behold! abrupt and loud,
Comes down the glittering rain;
The farewell of a passing cloud,
The fringes of her train.
April, season blest and dear,
Hope of the reviving year;
Promise of bright fruits that lie
In their downy canopy,
Till the nipping winds are past,
And their vails aside are cast!
April, who delight'st to spread
O'er the emerald-laughing mead
Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes,
Rich in wild embroideries!
April, who each zephyr's sigh
Dost with perfumed breath supply,
When they through the forest rove,
Spreading wily nets of love,
That, for lovely Flora made,
May detain her in the shade!
April, by thy hand caressed,
Nature, from her genial breast,
Loves her richest gifts to shower,
And awakes her magic power,
Till all earth and air are rife
With delight, and hope, and life!
April, nymph forever fair,
On my mistress' sunny hair,
Scattering wreaths of odors sweet,
For her snowy bosom meet!
April, full of smiles and grace,
Drawn from Venus' dwelling-place,
Thou, from earth's enamel'd plain,
Yield'st the gods their breath again.
"Tis thy courteous hand doth bring
Back the messenger of spring;
And his tedious exile o'er,
Hail'st the swallow's wing once more.
The eglantine, the hawthorn bright,
The thyme and pink, and jasmine white,
Don their purest robes to be
Guests, fair April, worthy thee.
The nightingale-sweet hidden sound!
'Midst the clustering boughs around,
Charms to silence notes that wake
Soft discourse from bush and brake,
And bids every listening thing
Pause awhile to hear her sing.
"Tis to thy return we owe
Love's fond sighs, that learn to glow
After winter's chilling reign
Long has bound them in her chain.
'Tis thy smile to being warms
All the busy, shining swarms,
Which, on perfumed pillage bent,
Fly from flower to flower intent,
Till they load their golden thighs
With the treasure each supplies.
May may boast her ripened hues,
Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews,
And those glowing charms that well
All the happy world can tell;
But, sweet April, thou shalt be
Still a chosen month for me.
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps;
O'er the fields of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom;
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale;
While from the shrubbery's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze
Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone,
Every checker'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.
Scant along the ridgy land
The beans their new-born ranks expand;
The fresh-turn'd soil, with tender blades,
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half-rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye displays,
Weakly green its budding sprays.
The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the gray moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring;
The butterfly, gay-painted, soon
Explores awhile the tepid noon,
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns and flattering skies.
Fraught with a transient, frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery vail,
Looks through the thin descending hail;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light;
And high her tuneful track pursues,
'Mid the dim rainbow's scattered hues.
Where, in venerable rows,
Widely-waving oaks disclose
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.
Musing through the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark
How various greens in faint degrees
Tinge the tall groups of various trees;
While, careless of the changing year,
The pine cerulean, never sere,
Towers distinguish'd from the rest,
And proudly vaunts her winter vest.
Within some whispering osier isle,
Where Glynn's low banks neglected smile,
And each trim meadow still retains
The wintry torrent's oozy stains,
Beneath a willow, long forsook,
The fisher seeks his 'custom'd nook;
And bursting through the crackling sedge,
That crowns the current's cavern'd edge,
He startles from the bordering wood
The bashful wild-duck's early brood.
O'er the broad downs, a novel race,
Frisk the lambs with faltering pace,
And with eager bleatings fill
The foss that skirts the beacon'd hill.
His free-born vigor, yet unbroke,
To lordly man's usurping yoke,
The bounding colt forgets to play,
Basking beneath the noontide ray,
And stretch'd among the daisies pied,
Of a green dingle's sloping side;
While far beneath, where Nature spreads
Her boundless length of level meads,
In loose luxuriance taught to stray,
A thousand tumbling rills inlay
With silver veins the vale, or pass
Redundant through the sparkling grass.
THOMAS WARTON, 1728-1790.
Lessons sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heav'n-taught heart?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet and lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea;
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touch'd by light with heavenly warning,
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.
Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory,
Teaches truth to wandering men.
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die;
Homely scenes and simple views,
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging
O'er the moss and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipp'd with vernal red,
And her kindly flower display'd
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.
Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn Contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live,
On the least that Heaven may give.
If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stormy vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,
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