Sonnet XXXI

SPRING's dewy hand on this fair summit weavesThe downy grass, with tufts of Alpine flowers;And shades the beechen slopes with tender leaves,And leads the shepherd to his upland bowers,Strewn with wild thyme; while slow-descending showersFeed the green ear, and nurse the future sheaves!—Ah! blest the hind—whom no sad thought bereavesOf the gay season's pleasures!—All his hoursTo wholesome labour given, or thoughtless mirth;No pangs of sorrow past, or coming dread,Bend his unconscious spirit down to earth,Or chase calm slumbers from his careless head!Ah! what to me can those dear days restore,When scenes could charm that now I taste no more!