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The SpringThe Spring
THOUGH you be absent here, I needs must say
The Trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be ;
Nay the Birds rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they sung to pleasure you:
I saw a Rose-Bud ope this morn ; I`ll swear
The blushing Morning open`d not more fair.
How could it be so fair, and you away ?
How could the Trees be beauteous, Flowers so gay ?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did Them, They you delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call`d their Fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent Barks again.
Where e`er you walk`d trees were as reverend made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is `t possible they should not know,
What loss of honor they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now,
And still their former pride retain ?
Dull Creatures! `tis not without Cause that she,
Who fled the God of wit, was made a Tree.
In ancient times sure they much wiser were,
When they rejoyc`d the Thracian verse to hear ;
In vain did Nature bid them stay,
When Orpheus had his song begun,
They call`d their wondring roots away,
And bad them silent to him run.
How would those learned trees have followed you ?
You would have drawn Them, and their Poet too.
But who can blame them now ? for, since you`re gone,
They`re here the only Fair, and Shine alone.
You did their Natural Rights invade ;
Where ever you did walk or sit,
The thickest Boughs could make no shade,
Although the Sun had granted it :
The fairest Flowers could please no more, neer you,
Then Painted Flowers, set next to them, could do.
When e`er then you come hither, that shall be
The time, which this to others is, to Me.
The little joys which here are now,
The name of Punishments do bear ;
When by their sight they let us know
How we depriv`d of greater are.
`Tis you the best of Seasons with you bring ;
This is for Beasts, and that for Men the Spring.
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