Lines on Summer

A STRAIN sublime that now my breast inspires,
Ye nymphs of Sicily! your aid requires...
The iron age of winter, stern and dread,
At length has hid his grisly baneful head;
The golden age appears that Virgil sung.
An age that well might claim his tuneful tongue.
Unbidden flowers with bloom spontaneous grow.
Wide spread the ivy for the poet’s brow,
The modest lily and the full-blown rose
And grander tulip all their sweets disclose;
The feathered choir, that tune the song of love,
Invite the muse’s fancy forth to rove.
Now, now, ye bards! let every lyre be strung.
Nor let a flower its sweets disclose unsung...
’Tis true some poets, that unguarded sing,
The Golden Age would fain ascribe to spring.
For me, I see not how wits e’er so starch
Could prove the beauties of the bleak-eyed March,
Nor February clad in horrid snow,
Nor April when the winds relentless blow...