I.

Y E southern gales, that fan Peruvian groves,
With gentle am'rous wing,
Awhile suspend your tender loves,
And chide the loit'rer spring !
O gently chide th' unkind delay,
That keeps the nymph so long away
From northern climes, whose drooping swains
Long to hail her on their frozen plains.

II.

Where'er the ling'ring maid you find,
By stream or vocal grove,
Around her waist soft osiers bind
That she may cease to rove.
Then swiftly ply your rapid wing,
The captive fair-one hither bring,
That all our fields in renovated charms may smile,
And flow'rs unnumber'd deck the loosen'd soil.

III.

All nature mourns thee, blooming fair —
No more the streams delight ;
No more embroider'd vales appear,
To check the wand'ring sight.
E'en Phaebus darts a sickly ray,
And pours a dull dejected day,
Refusing to dispense his splendid beams
To loose the frozen glebe, and thaw the icy streams.

IV.

Yet sad Canadia's sons, with dread,
Still court the wintry gloom ;
For frost and snow on them more pleasure shed,
Than thy enliv'ning bloom !
With eyes aghast, they view the plain
Portending thy approaching reign,
And wish St. Lawrence streams may never flow,
But, bound in icy chains, repel their conquering foe.

V.

Not such the prayer of vet'ran bands
Whom W OLFE to glory led,
Beneath whose gallant warlike hands,
The pride of Gallia bled.
With ardent wish for Spring 's return,
And martial rage, their bosoms burn
Impatient once again the soe to meet,
And, in one well-fought field, labours to complete.