Classic Poem

In this gay month, when through the sultry hour
The vernal sun denies the wonted show'r,
When youthful spring usurps maturer sway
And pallid April steals the blush of May,
How joys the rustic tribe to view display'd
The lib'ral blossom and the early shade!
But ah! far other air our soil delights,
Here " charming weather " is the worst of blights,
No genial beams rejoice our rustic train;
Their harvest's still the better for the rain!
To summer suns our groves no tribute owe,
They thrive in frost, and flourish best in snow,
While other woods resound the feather'd throng,
Our groves, our woods, are destitute of song:
The thrush, the lark, all leave our mimic vale,
No more we boast our Christmas nightingale,
Poor Rossignol — the wonder of his day,
Sang through the winter, but is mute in May.
Then bashful spring, that gilds fair nature's scene,
O'ercasts our lawns, and deadens ev'ry green,
Obscures our sky, embrowns the wooden shade,
And dries the channel of each tin cascade.
Oh, hapless we, whom such ill-fate betides,
Hurt by the beam which cheers the world besides!
Who love the ling'ring frost, nice chilling show'rs,
While Nature's Benefit — is death to ours,
Who, witch-like, best in noxious mists perform,
Thrive in the tempest and enjoy the storm.
Oh, hapless we! unless your generous care
Bid us no more lament that Spring is fair,
But plenteous green from the dramatic soil,
The vernal harvest of our winter's toil,
For April suns to us no pleasure bring:
Your presence here is all we feel of Spring;
May's riper beauties here no bloom display,
Your fostering smile alone proclaims it May.