Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft She woos the tardy Spring: Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground; And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance The birds his presence greet: But chief, the skylark warbles high His trembling thrilling ecstasy; And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, Rise the rapt'rous choir among; Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song: … Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday, nor morrow know;