In April's gilded morn when south winds blow,
And gently shake the hawthorn's silver crown,
Wafting its scent the forest-glade adown,
The dewy shelter of the bounding Doe,
_Then_, under trees, soft tufts of primrose show
Their palely-yellowing flowers;--to the moist Sun
Blue harebells peep, while cowslips stand unblown,
Plighted to riper May;--and lavish flow
The Lark's loud carols in the wilds of air.
O! not to Nature's glad Enthusiast cling
Avarice, and pride.--Thro' her now blooming sphere
Charm'd as he roves, his thoughts enraptur'd spring
To HIM, who gives frail Man's appointed time
These cheering hours of promise, and of prime.
_April 29th, 1782._