George Dyer

(1755 - 1841 / England)

Ode On The Spring - Poem by George Dyer

See where the rosy-footed Spring
Dances forth in trim array,
Blithe as an Eastern bridal Queen,
To wed the lamp of day.
And see! where rising nature homage pays,
And all her breathing incense pour along;
The softest gales, the shrillest warblers lays,
The streams sweet murmur, and the poets song,
All, all are thine! Earth, Air, and Sea, and Sky,
All wake for thee, fair Spring, their sweetest minstrelsy.

I too the gentle influence feel,
And join the rapt'rous choral song;
And touch the lyre as soft I steal,
Oh Cam! — thy banks along.
Tho' on those banks no myrtle breathes perfume,
No rose unfolds its blushing beauties there,
No tulip there displays its gaudy bloom,
No stately lily decks the gay parterre;
Enclos'd within the garden's bright domain,
These all in Eastern pride still hold their golden reign.

Yet nature o'er the simple scene
Scatters wild beauties bright and gay,
As up they spring, a numerous train,
As fair and sweet as they.
To me the violet hath a balmy sweet,
To me the kingcup scatters golden hues,
E'en in the primrose modest beauties meet,
E'en the meek daisy can instruct the muse:
Mid fields in silent wonder she can stand,
And ev'n in field-flow'rs trace a master's matchless hand.

And see! the sportive sun-beams play,
Dancing on the crisped stream;
While thousand insects, light and gay,
Swift o'er the surface skim.
Nor does in vain the stately cygnet sail,
Nor roving bees buz on the flowery brink,
Nor fishes down the silver current steal,
Nor little songsters on the margin drink,
And playful oft their glossy pinions ply,
While with their feather'd mates they vernal gambols try.

Oh Spring! — I love thy gentle reign;—
Yet I will leave thee, gentle Spring,
If so his wisdom shall ordain
Who reigns, thy smiling King.
Yes, all thy clouds and skies of silver hues,
Thy meads, and vales, soft gales, and glossy bloom,
I'll leave them all, so friendly to the muse,
Should but thy Sov'reign say, Behold! I come.
And shatter'd too might sleep this feeble lyre,
Might I but hear, and view, and join th' immortal choir.

What tho' I love thee, Spring-tide fair,
Yet there's a brighter Spring above;
Gay laughs the Sun the livelong year,
And all is light and love.
There gales immortal sweetness breathe around;
There shine fair-smiling fruits and golden flowers,
Cherish'd, luxuriant on the laughing ground,
With Heav'n's own dews, and pure ambrosial show'rs.
There happy beings rest, their conquest won,
And reap from heavenly trees a never-with'ring crown.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 9, 2012



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