A Celebration of Women Writers

"Ode to Spring." by Mary Darby Robinson (1758-1800)
This Edition: The Memoirs of Mary Robinson by Mary Darby Robinson & Mary Elizabeth Robinson, with an introduction and notes by J. Fitzgerald Molloy. London: Gibbings and Company, Ld., 1895. pp. 231-232.

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Life-glowing season ! odour-breathing Spring !
Deck'd in cerulean splendours !vivid,warm,
Shedding soft lustre on the rosy hours,
And calling forth their beauties ! balmy Spring !
To thee the vegetating world begins
To pay fresh homage. Ev'ry southern gale
Whispers thy coming;every tepid show'r
Revivifies thy charms. The mountain breeze
Wafts the ethereal essence to the vale,
While the low vale returns its fragrant hoard
With tenfold sweetness. When the dawn unfolds
Its purple splendours 'mid the dappled clouds,
Thy influence cheers the soul. When noon uplifts
Its burning canopy, spreading the plain
Of heaven's own radiance with one vast of light,
Thou smil'st triumphant ! Ev'ry little flow'r
Seems to exult in thee, delicious Spring,
Luxuriant nurse of nature ! By the stream,
That winds its swift course down the mountain's side,
Thy progeny are seen;young primroses,
And all the varying buds of wildest birth,
Dotting the green slope gaily. On the thorn,
Which arms the hedge-row, the young birds invite
With merry minstrelsy, shrilly and maz'd
With winding cadences; now quick, now sunk
In the low twittered song. The evening sky
Reddens the distant main; catching the sail,
Which slowly lessens, and with crimson hue

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Varying the sea-green wave; while the young moon,
Scarce visible amid the warmer tints
Of western splendours, slowly lifts her brow
Modest and icy-lustred ! O'er the plain
The light dews rise, sprinkling the thistle's head,
And hanging its clear drops on the wild waste
Of broomy fragrance. Season of delight !
Thou soul-expanding pow'r, whose wondrous glow
Can bid all nature smile ! Ah ! why to me
Come unregarded, undelighting still
This ever-mourning bosom ? So I've seen
The sweetest flow'rets bind the icy urn;
The brightest sunbeams glitter on the grave;
And the soft zephyr kiss the troubled main,
With whispered murmurs. Yes, to me, O Spring !
Thou com'st unwelcom'd by a smile of joy;
To me ! slow with'ring to that silent grave
Where all is blank and dreary ! Yet once more
The Spring eternal of the soul shall dawn,
Unvisited by clouds, by storms, by change,
Radiant and unexhausted ! Then, ye buds,
Ye plumy minstrels, and ye balmy gales,
Adorn your little hour, and give your joys
To bless the fond world-loving traveller,
Who, smiling, measures the long flow'ry path
That leads to death ! For to such wanderers
Life is a busy, pleasing, cheerful dream,
And the last hour unwelcome. Not to me,
O ! not to me, stern Death, art thou a foe;
Thou art the welcome messenger, which brings
A passport to a blest and long repose

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