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First Line: Room for the jocund queen of new-born flowers
Last Line: The blended homage of the circling year.


Enter SPRING.

SPRING.

Room for the jocund queen of new-born flowers!
Bathed in light fragrant airs and sunny showers
I come. Beneath my steps the grass is set
With violets, cowslips, daffodils, all wet
With freshest dew as any crystal clear.
The youth, the smile, the music of the year
Am I. Who loves not Spring? Gay songs of birds
Tell my delights, and rough uncouthest words
Of shepherds. Fairest ladies, here are posies
Of crisp curled hyacinths, pale maiden roses,
And bright anemonies of richer dyes
Than rubies, amethysts, or azure eyes
Of sapphires. Summer! hasten, leafy queen!
And Autumn help to bind my garlands sheen!

Enter SUMMER.

SUMMER.

In a green nook, whose mossy bed receives
Shade from my own unnumbered world of leaves,
I heard a voice called Summer.

SPRING.

Hast thou not
Brought flowery tribute? To thy favourite grot
I sent my deftist, trustiest messenger,
A dappled butterfly, whose pinions whir
Like thy mailed beetle's. He was charg'd to say
That great Doria would be here to-day --
Did not that rouse thee?

SUMMER.

Yes! his name hath won
To my deep solitudes, where scarce the sun
Can pierce the heavy umbrage. The cool places
To which the sweltering noon the wild deer chases;
The shelter'd pools, which oft the swallow's winglet
Skims, or where lazily her darker ringlet
Some Naiad floating in her beauty laves;
The little bubbling springs, whose tiny waves
Do murmur gently round old pollard trees,
Mingling their music with the stir of bees;
All these are mine: mine the wild forest glade
Where the bright sun comes flickering through the shade,
Gilding the turfy wood-walks; and his name
Is wafted through them with an odorous fame,
Balm breathing. Take my tribute. Strawberries bred
In shrubby dingles: cherries round and red,
And flowers that love the sun.

SPRING.

Sweet flowers are thine,
Carnation, pink, acacia, jessamine,
With coral-budded myrtle, which discloses
White pearly blossoms, and perfumed musk roses.

Enter AUTUMN.

AUTUMN.

Fair queen of leaves and flowers, give way to me,
To Autumn and his fruits. Do you not see
How I am laden? Corn and grapes are here
And olives. Of the riches of the year
I am the joyful gatherer. Merry nights
Have I at harvest-time, and rare delights
When the brown vintagers beneath the trees
Dance and drink in the sunset and the breeze.
And I have brought young tendrils of the vine
Amidst your gayer garlands to entwine
For great Doria.

Enter WINTER.

SPRING.

Ah! what form is this?
Stern Winter, hence! Come not to mar our bliss
With frosts and tempests. Icy season, hence!
See, Summer sickens at thy influence,
And I can feel my coronet withering.

WINTER.

Hence then, thyself, fair, dainty, delicate thing!
Light fluttering playmate of the infant loves,
Mistress of butterflies and turtle-doves,
Hence! and bear with thee that gay blooming toy,
To a fair girl from an enamoured boy
Fit homage, not for heroes. In this form
Thou hail'st a friend, Doria! The wild storm,
The raging of the elements, the wave
That Winter flings aloft, are to the brave
A victory and a glory. Thou hast breasted
My billows, mountain-high and foamy-crested,
And vanquished them. And I can guerdon thee,
I, barren Winter, from the unfading tree
To valour consecrate. This laurel crown
Wear! as it clips thy temples, thy renown
Will cast upon its shining leaves a light
Ineffable. Approach, ye Seasons bright,
With gifts and garlands; let us offer here
The blended homage of the circling year.





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