Come, gentle spring! Etherial mildness, come
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While Music wakes around, veil'd in a show'r 
Of shadowing roses on our plains descend
And see, where surly Winter passes off
Far to the North and calls his ruffian blasts;
His blasts obey and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest and the ravag'd Vale,
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch
The Mountains lift their green heads to the Sky.
Be Gracious, Heav'n; ye fost'ring Breezes, blow,
Ye soft'ning dews, ye tender show'rs, descend,
And temper all, thou world reviving Sun
Into the perfect year, while in the rosy Vale
Love breaths his infant sighs from Anguish free
And full replete with Bless save the sweet pain,
That inly thrilling but exalts it more.