And in yon mingded wilderness of flowers, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace; Throws out the snow-drop, and the crocus first The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown And lavish stock that scents the garden round; From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies, auriculas, enrich'd
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; And full ranuneulas, of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust,
The varied colours run; and, while they break On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud, First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes: Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils, Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hauging still;
Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks,
Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom. Hail, Source of being! universal Soul Of Heaven and earth! essential Presence, hail! To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts, Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand, Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By Thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By Thee dispos'd into congenial soils, Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. At Thy command the vernal Sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds, that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innumerous-coloured scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh pour The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme Unknown to fame, the passion of the groves. When first the soul of Love is sent abroad, Warm thro' the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; And try again the long-forgotten strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfin'd. Up-springs the lark, Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads Of the coy quiristers that lodge within, Arc prodigal of harmony. The thrush And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng
Superior heard, run thro' the sweetest length Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns To let them joy, and purposes, in thought Elate, to make her night excel their day. The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake; The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove : Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stock dove breathes A melancholy murmur thro' the whole.
'Tis Love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of Love; That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind Try every winning way inventive love Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around, With distant awe, in airy rings they rove, Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance
Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem Softening the least approvance to bestow, Their colours burnish, and by hope inspir'd, They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, Retire disorder'd; then again approach; In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, And shiver every feather with desire.
Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods They haste away, all as their fancy leads, Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts; That Nature's great command may be obey'd: Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive Indulg'd in vain. Some to the holly-hedge Nestling repair, and to the thicket some; Some to the rude protection of the thorn Commit their feeble offspring: the cleft tree Offers its kind concealment to a few, Their food its insects, and its moss their nests Others apart far in the grassy dale,
Or roughening waste, their humble texture weave. But most in woodland solitudes delight, In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks, Steep, and divided by a babbling brook, Whose murmurs sooth them all the live-long day,
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