The morning dows, and gather in their prime Fresh blooming flowrs, to grave thy braided hair.
Published 1 December 1801.by FJ Du Roveray.London.
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart: O come! and while the rosy-footed May Steals blushing on, together let us tread The morning dews, and gather in their prime Fresh-blooming flow'rs, to grace thy braided hair, And thy lov'd bosom that improves their sweets. See, where the winding vale its lavish stores, Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass, Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank, In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk, Where the breeze blows from yon extended field Of blossom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast
A fuller gale of joy, than, lib'ral, thence
Breathes thro' the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul. Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flow'rs, The negligence of nature, wide, and wild; Where, undisguis'd by mimic art, she spreads Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart, Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube, Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. At length the finish'd garden to the view Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye Distracted wanders; now the bow'ry walk
Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps; Now meets the bending sky; the river now Dimpling along, the breezy-ruffled lake, The forest dark'ning round, the glitt'ring spire, Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. But why so far excursive? when at hand, Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, And in yon mingled wilderness of flow'rs, Fair-handed Spring unbosoms ev'ry grace;
Throws out the snowdrop, and the crocus first; The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flow'r, stain'd with iron-brown;
And lavish stock, that scents the garden round From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed, Anemonies; auriculas, enrich'd
With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves; And full ranunculus, of glowing red.
Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays Her idle freaks; from family diffus'd To family, as flies the father-dust,
The varied colours run; and, while they break On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks, With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud, First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes: Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white, Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils, Of potent fragrance; nor narcissus fair,
As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still; Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks; Nor, show'r'd from ev'ry bush, the damask-rose. Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,
With hues on hues expression cannot paint, The breath of nature, and her endless bloom. Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul
Of heav'n and earth! Essential Presence, hail! To thee I bend the knee; to thee my thoughts, Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand, Hast the great whole into perfection touch'd. By thee the various vegetative tribes, Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves, Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew: By thee dispos'd into congenial soils,
Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes. At thy command the vernal sun awakes The torpid sap, detruded to the root By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance, And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads All this innum'rous-colour'd scene of things.
As rising from the vegetable world
My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend, My panting muse: and hark, how loud the woods Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.
Lend me your song, ye nightingales! Oh pour
The mazy-running soul of melody
Into my varied verse! while I deduce,
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,
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