SOUND, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound, Young voices sing; Wreathe every door with snow-white garlands round, For lo! 'tis Spring! Winter has passed with its sad funeral train, And hope revives again. Blow high, blow loud upon the wreathed horn, Sound joy-bells deep! Green-kirtled summer walks through vines and corn, The fenced fields sleep; The first flowers fade, the green fruits swell, and yet Fruition brings regret. Lift joyous harvest-music mellow notes With merry tunes! Raise thankful paeans loud from manly throats, Trumpets, bassoons! Autumn has left red fruits and garnered gold, With dawns and twilights cold. Yet cease not from the use of solemn song, When the streams freeze; For dark brief days and rayless nights and long, For leafless trees! Each season should its proper music bring, Sweet as the songs of Spring. |