Ode Vii. To Spring Poem by Charles Tompson

O Thou who, unexpected, steal'st serene
Into the bosom of the fertile year,
Tell me of climates which I ne'er have seen,
And let me feel the fragrance thou dost bear!

For with thy presence, nature is adorned,
Clad in gay green, luxuriant and mild,
Erewhile the embryo blossom lay unformed,
In sweet profusion scattered o'er the wild;

'Till, by degrees, it op'ning to the sun,
Now spreads, enamour'd, to his warmer ray;
At length, by aged infirmity o'ercome,
'Twill, once more closing, droop and die away.
Thus, in the midst of pleasures, man's cut off,
Struck by the never-erring arm of death;
Tho' some, above their fellows, rise aloft,
Yet fate, at length, will stop their vital breath.