Garlands! bring garlands, boy! what garden now
Would not give flowers? with ready hand do thou
Weave garlands. What! December, sayst thou,--snow?
Fool! hold thy blabbing, speak of what we know.
Winter upon our shores, and snow? the thing
Is not, and cannot be. It is the Spring:
Whatever ghost threatens us with the drear
Beatings of wild December, Spring is here.
See'st thou not with what leaves the royal vine
Spreads forth, what clusters on her boughs incline?
Say, when like this was Winter ever seen
To laugh and glow in purple? O great Queen,
Offspring of gods, and mother! do we see
The seasons thus a plaything made for thee?
Thus with thy Spring mayst thou the stars restrain,
That Winter sting not, nor the South bring rain.
And do the lilies by thy grace alone
Spring up, and know no snows except their own?
In spite of all that Winter may oppose,
Are thus our kingdoms blooming with the rose?
O thou most blest disturber of the year,
Who sufferest not the bounded seasons here
To keep i' their own signs! destroyer kind
Of Winter, whose sweet influence can bind
All harsher murmurs of the world, still dare
We pray thee, thus to force our calendar
With thy fair violence; continue still
The months to number at thine own sweet will;
Still thus untimely, still thus burdensome,
Make all things subject to thy royal womb.
So, by thy grace, may it be often ours
To see dethroned Winter deck'd in flowers;
On snow that falls i' roses still to gaze,
Sweet vernal Winters and December Mays!
Let others by the stars compute their year,
And count their days as wandering signs appear:
Not so we Britons; not for us shall storm
With cruel change our seasons dare deform;
To thee, great Queen, our whole year we resign,
O spend it all i' those rich births of thine!
So the whole year shall own thy womb to be
Its sovereign arbitress of good; in thee
Merge all its titles. Where's the month could bear
A more delicious name, or ever wear
More whiteness? Janus, for his double crown,
Covets this laurel; Maius for his own
Would buy it, though his Chloris were the cost.
Thee or thine infant, now that Spring has lost
His ancient throne, the flow'ry states invite
To take their empire. O blest year, how bright
Thy fortunes, where each month in turn may claim
From Mary or from Charles its mighty name! G.