Classic Poem

The trumpet winds have sounded a retreat,
Blowing o'er land and sea a sullen strain;
Usurping March, defeated, flies again,
And lays his trophies at the Winter's feet!
And lo!—where April, coming in his turn,
In changeful motleys, half of light and shade,
Leads his belated charge, a delicate maid,
A nymph with dripping urn.

Hail! hail! thrice hail!—thou fairest child of Time,
With all thy retinue of laughing Hours,
Thou paragon from some diviner clime,
And ministrant of its benignest Powers,
Who hath not caught the glancing of thy wing,
And peeped beneath thy mask, delicious Spring?
Sometimes we see thee on the pleasant morns
Of lingering March, with wreathèd crook of gold,
Leading the Ram from out his starry fold,
A leash of light around his jagged horns!
Sometimes in April, goading up the skies
The Bull, whose neck Apollo's silvery flies
Settle upon, a many-twinkling swarm!
And when May-days are warm,
And drawing to a close,
And Flora goes
With Zephyr from his palace in the west,
Thou dost upsnatch the Twins from cradled rest,
And strain them to thy breast,
And haste to meet the expectant, bright new-comer,
The opulent Queen of Earth, the gay, voluptuous Summer!

Unmuffled now, shorn of thy veil of showers,
Thou tripp'st along the mead with shining hair
Blown back, and scarf out-fluttering on the air,
White-handed, strewing the fresh sward with flowers!
The green hills lift their foreheads far away;
But where thy pathway runs the sod is pressed
By fleecy lambs, behind the budding spray;
And troops of butterflies are hovering round,
And the small swallow drops upon the ground
Beside his mate, and nest!
A little month ago, the sky was gray;
Snow tents were pitched along the mountain-side,
Where March encamped his stormy legions wide,
And shook his standard o'er the fields of Day!
But now the sky is blue, the snow is flown,
And every mountain is an emerald throne,
And every cloud a dais fringed with light,
And all below is beautiful and bright!
The forest waves its plumes,—the hedges blow,—
The south wind scuds along the meadowy sea
Thick-flecked with daisied foam,—and violets grow
Blue-eyed, and cowslips star the bloomy lea;
The skylark floods the scene with pleasant rhyme;
The ousel twitters in the swaying pine;
And wild bees hum about the beds of thyme,
And bend the clover-bells and eglantine;
The snake casts off his skin in mossy nooks;
The long-eared rabbits near their burrows play;
The dormouse wakes; and see! the noisy rooks
Sly foraging, about the stacks of hay!

What sights! what sounds! what rustic life and mirth!
Housed all the winter long from bitter cold,
Huddling in chimney-corners, young and old
Come forth and share the gladness of the Earth.
The ploughmen whistle as the furrows trail
Behind their glittering shares, a billowy row;
The milkmaid sings a ditty while her pail
Grows full and frothy; and the cattle low;
The hounds are yelping in the misty wood,
Starting the fox: the jolly huntsmen cheer;
And winding horns delight the listening ear,
And startle Echo in her solitude;
The teamster drives his wagon down the lane,
Flattening a broader rut in weeds and sand;
The angler fishes in the shady pool;
And loitering down the road, with cap in hand,
The truant chases butterflies,—in vain,
Heedless of bells that call the village lads to school!

Methinks the world is sweeter than of yore,
More fresh and fine, and more exceeding fair;
There is a presence never felt before,—
The soul of inspiration everywhere;
Incarnate Youth in every idle limb,
My vernal days, my prime, return anew;
My trancèd spirit breathes a silent hymn,
My heart is full of dew!