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Again the wood, and long with－drawing vale，
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 aught 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，
There surely met in thee！－Thy prospect fair，
Thy sounds of harmony， thy balmy air，
Have power to cure all sadness-but despair.
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