Blandusian spring, more gaily bright

B LANDUSIAN spring, more gaily bright,
In thy never-ceasing birth,
Than gem compact of solar light,
That, fetter'd long in darksome earth,
Leaps forth to greet a kindred ray—
Thou art worth a Poet's lay.

Flowers—them we will not give,—
Thou hast plenty of thy own;
Little lambkins;—let them live,
Thou wert loath to hear them moan:
Let them frisk upon thy bourn,
And in thee view the budding horn.

Well I know, an ancient Poet
Promised thee a kid to-morrow—
I, a Christian Bard, well know it,—
If he paid it, 'twas thy sorrow:—
But he never did the thing
Which he was constrain'd to sing.

Poet he, that would have been
A Christian Poet if he could,—
One that felt far more, I ween,
Than he ever understood,—
One that only wanted telling
The truth that in his heart was dwelling.

Blandusian Fount! I know not thee,
And learned critics much are troubled,
To find, if yet a stream there be,
Where, long of yore, thy waters bubbled,
And I could almost wish there were not,
Since all who loved thee dearly are not.

The barren rocks are still the same—
The fertile streams are changing ever,
So, lives, in nature's endless fame,
The Carthaginian's vain endeavour—
But, Horace, we can only guess
The sweet home of thy happiness.

Yet fare thee well, thou lovely spring,
And never may thy nymphs desert thee,
For while one Bard on earth may sing,
Not all the powers of earth can hurt thee:
And tho' no lamb to thee we give,
Blest shalt thou be as long as lambkins live.
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