THE AIRS OF SPRING.
Sweetly breathing, vernal air,
That with kind warmth doth repair
Winter's ruins; from whose breast
All the gums and spice of th' East
Borrow their perfumes; whose eye
Gilds the morn, and clears the sky;
Whose disheveled tresses shed
Pearls upon the violet bed;

On whose brow, with calm smiles drest,
The halcyon sits and builds her nest;
Beauty, youth, and endless spring,
Dwell upon thy rosy wing!

Thou, if stormy Boreas throws
Down whole forests when he blows,
With a pregnant, flowery birth,
Canst refresh the teeming earth.
If he nip the early bud;

If he blast what's fair or good;
If he scatter our choice flowers;
If he shake our halls or bowers;
If his rude breath threaten us,
Thou canst stroke great Æolus,
And from him the grace obtain,
To bind him in an iron chain.

THOMAS CAREW, 1600.

RETURN OF SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH,

God shield ye, heralds of the spring,
Ye faithful swallows, fleet of wing,

Houps, cuckoos, nightingales,

Turtles, and every wilder bird,

That make your hundred chirpings heard
Through the green woods and dales.

God shield ye, Easter daisies all,
Fair roses, buds, and blossoms small,
And he whom erst the gore

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 butterflies, that on the plain,
Of each sweet herblet sip;

And ye, new swarms of bees, that go
Where the pink flowers and yellow grow
To kiss them with your lip.

A hundred thousand times I call

A hearty welcome on ye all:

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,
Hoar Winter's blooming child-delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crown'd;

From the green islands of eternal youth,
Crown'd with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,
Turn, thither turn thy step,

O thou whose powerful voice,

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding wind,
And through the stormy deep

Breathe thine own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs, and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favored youth,

That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores-those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds;
And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;

And call those winds which through the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath

Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,

And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;
And watch with patient eye,

Thy fair, unfolding charms.

O nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead through the cold, moist air,
Throws his young maiden beams,

And with chaste kisses woo8

The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming vail
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade
Protects thy modest blooms

From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short; the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses; and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy,

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits

Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope

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
Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown;
Where they together,

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!
Many a spring I shot up fair,

Offering at heav'n, growing and groaning thither:
Nor doth my flower

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,
Where all things burn,

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,
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing. O, my only light,
It can not be,

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,
Hail, in wild notes, the sweet return of May:
The gale, that o'er yon waving almond blows,
The verdant bank with silver blossoms strews;
The smiling season decks each flowery glade.
Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air!
Hills, dales, and woods their loveliest mantles wear,
Who knows what cares await that fatal day,
When ruder guests shall banish gentle May?
E'en death, perhaps, our valleys will invade.
Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

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!
Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade ?
Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The sparkling dew-drops o'er the lilies play,
Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day.
If love and mirth your idle thoughts engage,
Attend, ye nymphs! a poet's words are sage.
While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade,
Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

The fresh-blown rose, like Zeineb's cheek appears,
When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears.
The charms of youth at once are seen and past,
And Nature says, "They are too sweet to last."
So blooms the rose, and so the blushing maid—
Be gay too soon the flowers of spring will fade!

See! yon anemones their leaves unfold,
With rubies gleaming, and with living gold:
While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend,
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!