Classic Poem

Near Avon's ridgy bank there grows
 A willow of no vulgar size,
That tree first heard poor Silvio's woes,
 And heard how bright were Laura's eyes.

Its boughs were shade from heat and show'r,
 Its roots a moss-grown seat became;
Its leaves would strew the maiden's bow'r,
 Its bark was shatter'd with her name!

Once on a blossom-crowned day
Of mirth-inspiring May,
Silvio, beneath this willow's sober shade
In sullen contemplation laid,

Did mock the meadow's flowery pride,—
 Rail'd at the dance and sportive ring;—
The tabor's call he did deride,
 And said, it was not Spring .

He scorn'd the sky of azure blue,
 He scorn'd whate'er could mirth bespeak;
He chid the beam that drank the dew,
 And chid the gale that fann'd his glowing cheek.
Unpaid the season's wonted lay,
For still he sigh'd, and said, it was not May .

Ah, why should the glittering stream
 Reflect thus delusive the scene?
Ah, why does a rosy-ting'd beam,
 Thus vainly enamel the green?
To me nor joy nor light they bring
I tell thee, Phœbus, 'tis not Spring .

“Sweet tut'ress of music and love,
 Sweet bird, if 'tis thee that I hear,
Why left you so early the grove,
 To lavish your melody here?
Cease, then, mistaken thus to sing,
Sweet nightingale! it is not Spring .

“The gale courts my locks but to tease,
 And, Zephyr, I call'd not on thee;
Thy fragrance no longer can please,
 Then rob not the blossoms for me:
But hence unload thy balmy swing,
Believe me, Zephyr, 'tis not Spring .

Yet the lily has drank of the show'r,
 And the rose 'gins to peep on the day;
And yon bee seems to search for a flow'r,
 As busy as if it were May:—
In vain, thou senseless flutt'ring thing,
My heart informs me, ' tis not Spring .”

May pois'd her roseate wings, for she had heard
 The mourner, as she pass'd the vales along;
And, silencing her own indignant bird,
 She thus reprov'd poor Silvio's song.

“How false is the sight of a lover;
How ready his spleen to discover
 What reason would never allow!
Why,—Silvio, my sunshine and show'rs,
My blossoms, my birds, and my flow'rs,
 Were never more perfect than now.

“The water's reflection is true,
The green is enamell'd to view,
 And Philomel sings on the spray;
The gale is the breathing of spring,
'Tis fragrance it bears on its wing,
 And the bee is assur'd it is May .”

“Pardon” (said Sylvio with a gushing tear)
“' Tis Spring , sweet Nymph, but Laura is not here .”