And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring,
Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light,
And with their hues reflected streaking bright
Her radiant bow, bids all her Warblers sing;
The Lark, shrill caroling on soaring wing;
The lonely Thrush, in brake, with blossoms white,
That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight
Coy bending their dropt heads, young Cowslips fling
Rich perfume o'er the fields.—It is the prime
Of Hours that Beauty robes:—yet all they gild,
Cheer, and delight in this their fragrant time,
For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield
Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime,
Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.
May 1770.
1: Afterwards Mrs. Edgeworth.