122 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



And oft, with soaring wing, they soaring dare 



The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows, 



And yellow load them with the luscious spoil. 



At length the finish'd garden to the view 



Its vistas opens, and its alleys green. 



Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye 



Distracted wanders ; now the bowery walk 



Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day 



Falls on the lengthened gloom, protracted sweeps : 



Now meets the bending sky : the river now 



Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake, 



The forest darkening round, the glittering spire, 



Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main. 



But why so far excursive ? when at hand, 



Along these blushing borders, bright with dew, 



And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers, 



Fair-handed Spring unbosoms every grace ; 



Throws out the snow-drop and the crocus first, 



The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue, 



And polyanthus of unnumbered dyes ; 



The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown 



And lavish stock that scents the garden round. 



Then comes the tulip race, where Beauty plays 



Her idle freaks ; from family diffus'd 



To family, as flies the father-dust, 



The varied colours run. . . . 



No gradual bloom is wanting ; from the bud, 



First-born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes, 



Nor hyacinths of purest virgin white, 



Low bent, and blushing inward ; nor jonquilles, 



