Loud blew the North thro' April's pallid days,
Nor grass the field, nor leaves the grove obtains,
Nor crystal sun-beams, nor the gilded rains,
That bless the hours of promise, gently raise
Warmth in the blood, without that fiery blaze,
Which makes it boil along the throbbing veins.—
Albion, displeas'd, her own lov'd Spring surveys
Passing, with volant step, o'er russet plains;
Sees her to Summer's fierce embraces speed,
Pale, and unrobed.—Faithless! thou well may'st hide
Close in his sultry breast thy recreant head,
That did'st, neglecting thy distinguish'd Isle,
In Winter's icy arms so long abide,
While Britain vainly languish'd for thy smile!