Classic Poem

MOTHER of Mildness! rosey-featur'd May !
In every varied bloom, voluptuous, drest,
I feel, I feel thy vivifying my
Inform, afresh, my animated breast!

My spirit, lighter than the woodlark's wing,
Ascending to salute the dewey dawn,
Pursues thy countless beauties, as they spring
O'er blossom'd bow'r, gay bank, or shaven lawn.

Flush'd with ethereal fervour, all around
Luxuriant landscapes fill the raptur'd sight,
Imagination's wildest wish is crown'd,
And Fancy's self is satiate of delight:

Ev'n the cool streams with blushing radiance glow,
Where cowslips scatter, in profusion wide,
Their imitative show'r of summer-snow,
And downy willows kiss the trembling tide.

What florid fragrance scents the balmy air!
How soft an azure sheets the tepid sky!
Ah! come, A NTHEMOE , come, my promis'd fair,
Sweet May will lend to thine eye!

That eye, whose sparkling fluid, can impart,
To Apathy's cold bosom, chaste desire,
Shall, beam'd intensely on my beating heart,
Wake the young passion to its fiercest fire.

Oh! amiable still! whate'er employ
From thee derives unutterable grace;
For conscious Purity, with pensive joy,
Sits, ever-smiling, on thy eherub-face;

Whether thy glossy trees, of golden hue,
Careless effus'd, o'er thy white shoulder strays,
While thy ripe bosom bursting on my view,
The charm of happy negligence betrays;

Or, thy cheek pillow'd on thine ivory hand,
Thy melting soul some kind ideas thrill,
Tumultuous transports rush at thy command,
To lift my thought, oh! amiable still!

Yet, not a nectar'd lip, or starry eye,
Or cheek, with delicate carnation warm,
Call from my dim retreat th' aspiring sigh,
Nor the coy graces of that faultless form;

Thy tender air of soft solicitude,
Thy ardent sense, so femininely strong,
And pleasing wit, not arrogant, or rude,
Strike from my lyre th'involuntary song;

Then, sensible of bashful worth supreme,
No longer kill me with thy cold delay,
But, lapt in genuine Love's delightful dream,
Let mutual pleasures own propitious May !