10
COWLEY'S POEMS.
THE SPRING.
Though you be absent here, I needs must say
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they sung to pleasure you:
I saw a rose-bud ope this morn—I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.
The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay,
As ever they were wont to be;
Nay, the birds' rural musick too
Is as melodious and free,
As if they sung to pleasure you:
I saw a rose-bud ope this morn—I'll swear
The blushing morning open'd not more fair.
How could it be so fair, and you away?
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.
How could the trees be beauteous, flowers so gay?
Could they remember but last year,
How you did them, they you, delight,
The sprouting leaves which saw you here,
And call'd their fellows to the sight,
Would, looking round for the same sight in vain,
Creep back into their silent barks again.
Where'er you walk'd, trees were as reverent made,
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is 't possible they should not know
What loss of honour they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now.
And still their former pride retain?
Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.
As when of old Gods dwelt in every shade.
Is 't possible they should not know
What loss of honour they sustain,
That thus they smile and flourish now.
And still their former pride retain?
Dull creatures! 't is not without cause that she,
Who fled the God of Wit, was made a tree.
