12 Alluding to the war between the Protestant League and the Imperialists. 13 The goddess of war. ELEGY V. Anno Aetates 20. On the Approach of Spring. Time, never wand'ring from his annual round, Bids Zephyr breathe the Spring, and thaw the ground; Bleak Winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, And earth assumes her transient youth again. Dream I, or also to the Spring belong Increase of Genius, and new pow'rs of song? Spring gives them, and, how strange soere it seem, Impels me now to some harmonious theme. Castalia's fountain and the forked hill1 By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill, 10 My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within A sacred sound that prompts me to begin, Lo! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he blends The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends; I mount, and, undepress'd by cumb'rous clay, Through cloudy regions win my easy way; Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly: The shrines all open to my dauntless eye, My spirit searches all the realms of light, And no Tartarean gulphs elude my sight. 20 But this ecstatic trance--this glorious storm Of inspiration--what will it perform? Spring claims the verse that with his influence glows, And shall be paid with what himself bestows. Thou, veil'd with op'ning foliage, lead'st the throng Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song; Let us, in concert, to the season sing, Civic, and sylvan heralds of the spring! With notes triumphant spring's approach declare! To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear! 30 The Orient left and Aethiopia's plains The Sun now northward turns his golden reins, Night creeps not now, yet rules with gentle sway, And drives her dusky horrors swift away; Now less fatigued on his aetherial plain Bootes2 follows his celestial wain; And now the radiant centinels above Less num'rous watch around the courts of Jove, For, with the night, Force, Ambush, Slaughter fly, And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky. 40 Now haply says some shepherd, while he views, Recumbent on a rock, the redd'ning dews, This night, this surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair, Who stops his chariot by her am'rous care. Cynthia,3 delighted by the morning's glow, Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow; Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, Blesses his aid who shortens her career. Come--Phoebus cries--Aurora come--too late Thou linger'st slumb'ring with thy wither'd mate,4 50 Leave Him, and to Hymettus' top repair, Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there. The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays, But mounts, and driving rapidly obeys. Earth now desires thee, Phoebus! and, t'engage Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age. Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet, When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat? Her breath imparts to ev'ry breeze that blows Arabia's harvest and the Paphian rose. 60 Her lofty front she diadems around With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd,