When now the days of Winter's reign have fled,
And bright Arcturus leaves his ocean bed,
The twittering swallow, on exulting wing,
Arrives to herald the approaching Spring.
Spade up the soil and prune with tender care
The budding vines, or they may cease to bear.
But when the snail, forth issuing from the ground,
To escape the vernal showers, creeps around
The shooting scions, lay aside the spade,
The harvest-time has come, prepare the blade.
Long ere the sun his beam in splendor sheds,
Rouse up your servants from their drowsy beds,
And hasten forth with early dawn to wield
The scythe and sickle in the harvest field.
From dawn to breakfast you may save a heap
Of precious time that might be lost in sleep:
The work commenced, ere morning flies away,
Will much advance the labors of the day.
Soon as the thistle blooms and from her bower
The shrill cicada's voice begins to pour,
The Summer's come, through whose long sultry days
The flocks seek refuge from her scorching rays;
And fainting swains arc ready to expire,
While virgins glow with love's consuming fire.
Then from your labors seek a cool retreat,
In some wide grotto, from the melting heat,
Where spreading branches overhang the scene,
And bubbling fountains wind along the green,
And fragrant Zephyrs, in their sportive whims,
With gentle pinions fan the wearied limbs.
Then spread around the bounteous repast:
The roasted kid, how savory to the taste!
(3.)
