SPRING. Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign, Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me; To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed, Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'
Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock? No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes, Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion, Goes about, seeking whom he may devour. What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
Too long within the House has darkness dwelt, Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt; Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
Bury, for practice bold and skill Deserves to be of note; He cures by means that well might kill,
"What other men have dared, I dare," He said. "I'm daring, too: And tho' they told me to beware,
Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes; I view the youth, and feel compassion rise. He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze
Whence the shouts of public joy, Whence the galaxies of light, That strike the deafen'd ear?
Ere Reason rose within my breast, To enforce her sacred law, Still would some charm, in every maid,
Sing, lovely Girl! to hear Thee sing Hush'd is the listening air; My spirit trembles on the wing,