Bright dews illume the grassy plain, Sweet messengers of morn, And drops hang glistening after rain Like gems on every thorn; What though the grass is moist and rank Where dews fall from the tree, The creeping sun smiles on the bank And warms a seat for thee. The eager morning earlier wakes To glad thy fond desires, And oft its rosy bed forsakes Ere night’s pale moon retires; Sweet shalt thou feel the morning sun To warm thy dewy breast, And chase the chill mist’s purple dun That lingers in the west. Her dresses Nature gladly trims, To hail thee as her queen, And soon shall fold thy lovely limbs In modest garb of green: Each day shall like a lover come Some gifts with thee to share, And swarms of flowers shall quickly bloom To dress thy golden hair. All life and beauty warm and smile Thy lovely face to see, And many a hopeful hour beguile In seeking joys with thee; The sweetest hours that ever come Are those which thou dost bring, And sure the fairest flowers that bloom Are partners of the Spring. I’ve met the Winter’s biting breath In nature’s wild retreat, When Silence listens as in death, And thought its wildness sweet; And I have loved the Winter’s calm When frost has left the plain, When suns that morning waken’d warm Left eve to freeze again. I’ve heard in Autumn’s early reign Her first, her gentlest song; I’ve mark’d her change o’er wood and plain, And wish’d her reign were long; Till winds like armies, gather’d round, And stripp’d her colour’d woods, And storms urged on, with thunder-sound Their desolating floods. And Summer’s endless stretch of green, Spread over plain and tree, Sweet solace to my eyes has been, As it to all must be; Long I have stood his burning heat, And breathed the sultry day, And walk’d and toil’d with weary feet, Nor wish’d his pride away. But oft I’ve watch’d the greening buds Brush’d by the linnet’s wing, When, like a child, the gladden’d woods First lisp the voice of Spring; When flowers, like dreams, peep every day, Reminding what they bring; I’ve watch’d them, and am warn’d to pay A preference to Spring. TO THE RURAL MUSE. Muse of the Fields! oft have I said farewell To thee, my boon companion, loved so long, And hung thy sweet harp in the bushy dell, For abler hands to wake an abler song. Much did I fear my homage did thee wrong: Yet, loth to leave, as oft I turned again; And to its wires mine idle hands would cling, Torturing it into song. It may be vain; Yet still I try, ere Fancy droops her wing, And hopeless Silence comes to numb its ev’ry string.