Classic Poem

FROM THE GREEK OF BION .

KLEODÊMUS .

Myrson, which to thee is sweetest of the seasons of the year?
Spring; full autumn; winter; summer; — whose loved presence comes most dear?
Summer? when each task is ended, and our toil and moil is o'er;
Or lush autumn? when men lack not through the fullness of her store;
Or cold winter? when they work not, for 'tis then that drowsed and warm
One and all yield up their senses to the fireside's listless charm;
Or hath springtide, with her beauty, greater power to soothe and please?
Say whilst leisure courts our converse, which dost thou prefer of these?

MYRSON .

That we mortals should give sentence on God's works is most unmeet,
For these seasons all are sacred, and whate'er he makes is sweet,
Yet to please thee, Kleodêmus. I will say which suits me best.
Summer, I would ne'er desire thee, with thy sweltering suns oppressed,
Mellow autumn, thee I choose not, for thy ripe fruits bring disease.
Cruel winter, how I dread thee and thy snows and skies that freeze,
But O spring, thrice loved and longed for, be thou with me all the year,
Then shall neither frost nor burthen of the burning heat be near.
In the spring the earth, o'erteeming, bears all sweet things blooming bright,
And, like gifts in equal measure, falls the dark and dawns the light.