He, to the amplest bounds of Time's domain,

On Rapture's plume shall give thy Name to

fly;

For trust, with reverence trust this Sabine strain:

"The Muse forbids the virtuous Man to die."

Now the golden morn aloft

Waves her dew-bespangl'd wing,

With vermil cheek, and whisper soft,

She woos the tardy spring:

Till April starts, and calls around

The sleeping fragrance from the ground;

And lightly o'er the living scene

Scatters his freshest, tenderest, green.

New-born flocks in rustic dance,

Frisking ply their feeble feet;

Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet;

But chief the sky-lark warbles high

His trembling thrilling ecstacy;

And, less'ning from the dazzl'd sight,

Melts into air and liquid night,

Rise, my soul! on wings of fire,

Rise the rapt'rous choir among;

Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre,

And leads the general song :

"Warm let the Lyric transport flow,

"Warm as the ray that bids it glow :

"And animates the vernal grove

"With health, with harmony and love."

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;

Mute was the music of the air,

The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow,
No yesterday, nor morrow, know;
'Tis man alone that joy descries

With forward and reverted eyes.