In many a tint of tender green are dressed,

　　Where the young leaves unfolding scarce conceal

　　Reneath their early shade the half—formed nest

　　Of finch or wood-lark; and the primrose pale,

　　And lavish cowslip, wildly scattered round,

　　Give their sweet spirits to the sighing gale.

　　Ah! Season of delight! —could augght be found

　　To soothe awhile the tortured bosom's pain,

　　Of sorrow's rankling shaft to cure the wound,

　　And bring life's first delusions once again,

　　'Twere surely met in thee! —Thy prospect fair,

　　Thy sounds of harmony, thy balmy air,

　　Have power to cure all sadneess—but despair.