ODE LX.—ON THE SPRING.
How sweet through sunny meads to stray,
With Flora's rich profusion gay,
While Zephyr breathes its softest sighs,
And mingled perfumes round us rise!
How sweet beneath the secret shade,
By the vine's broad foliage made,[1]
With some loved fair to pass the day,
And talk th' unheeded hours away!
- ↑ "The country from hence to Adrianople is the finest in the world. Vines grow wild on all the hills, and the perpetual spring they enjoy makes everything gay and flourishing."—Lady Montague's Letters.
THE END.