Spring comes;--behold, sweet mead and lea Nature's green splendor tapestries o'er; Fresh blooms the flower, and buds the tree; Larks sing--the woodland wakes once more. The woodland wakes--but not for her! From Nature's self the charm has flown; No more the Spring of earth can stir The fond remembrance of our own! The sweetest bird upon the bough Has not one note of music now; And, oh! how dull the grove's soft shade, Where once--(as lovers then)--we strayed! The nightingales have got no learning-- Dull creatures--how can they inspire her? The lilies are so undiscerning, They never say--"how they admire her!" In all this jubilee of being, Some subject for a point she's seeing-- Some epigram--(to be impartial, Well turned)--there may be worse in Martial! But, hark! the goddess stoops to reason:-- "The country now is quite in season, I'll go!"--"What! to our country seat?" "No!--Travelling will be such a treat; Pyrmont's extremely full, I hear; But Carlsbad's quite the rage this year!" Oh yes, she loves the rural Graces; Nature is gay--in watering-places! Those pleasant spas--our reigning passion-- Where learned Dons meet folks of fashion; Where--each with each illustrious soul Familiar as in Charon's boat, All sorts of fame sit cheek-by-jowl, Pearls in that string--the table d'hote! Where dames whom man has injured--fly, To heal their wounds or to efface, them; While others, with the waters, try A course of flirting,--just to brace them! Well, there (O man, how light thy woes Compared with mine--thou need'st must see!) My wife, undaunted, greatly goes-- And leaves the orphans (seven!!!) to me!