He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems,
Into his freshened soul; her genial
He full enjoys; and not a beauty
And not an opening blossom breathes in vain.
In summer he, beneath the living shade,
Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to
Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of
Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung:
Or what she dictates writes: and, oft an
Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year.
When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world,
And tempts the sickled swain into the field,
Seiz'd by the general joy, his heart
With gentle throes, and through the tepid
Deep-musing, then he best exerts his song.
