Again the wood, and long with－drawing vale,
In many a tint¹ of tender green are dressed,

Where the young leaves unfolding scarce conceal²
Reneath their early shade the half—formed nest

Of finch³ or wood－lark; and the primrose⁴ pale,
And lavish⁵ cowslip, wildly scattered⁶ round,

Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale⁷.
Ah! Season of delight! —could augght be found

To soothe⁸ awhile the tortured bosom's pain,
Of sorrow's rankling⁹ shaft¹⁰ to cure the wound,

And bring life's first delusions¹¹ once again,
'Twere surely met in thee! —Thy prospect¹² fair,

Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,
Have power to cure all sadneess—but despair.