The swallows in their torpid state Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream, The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them, Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake, The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache, And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead, Bids me and Mary mourn;
But lovely spring peeps o'er his head, And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May, Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day, To crown the smiling hours.
And, if a tear, that speaks regret Of happier times, appear,
A glimpse of joy, that we have met, Shall shine, and dry the tear.
