On the Forwardness of Spring

O' ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound,
Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring:
Rich flow'rets (how fragrant!) rise wantonly round,
And Summer's wing'd choristers sing!

To greet the young monarch of Britain's blest isle,
The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!
The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,
And cowslips crowd forward in haste!

Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train
Through woodlands, to gather each sweet:
Go: rob, of young roses, the dew-spangled plain,
And strew the gay spoils at his feet.

Two chaplets of laurel, in verdure the same,
For George, oh ye virgins, entwine!
From Conquest's own temples these ever-greens came,
And those from the brows of the Nine!

What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)
What glory to George shall belong!
What Miltons, (the other) what Addisons rise,
To make him immortal in song!

To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of power!
Whose honours with time shall encrease!
Add a fair olive sprig, just unfolding its flower,
Rich token of concord and peace!

Next give him young myrtles, by beauty's bright queen
Collected,—the pride of the grove!
How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green!
Sweet promise of conjugal love.

Let Gaul's captive lilies, cropt close to the ground,
As trophies of conquest be ty'd:
The virgins all cry, "There's not one to be found!
Out-bloom'd by his roses—they dy'd."

Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share,
With George, as our glories advance—
Through envy you'll sicken,—you'll droop,—you'll despair,
And die—like the lilies of France.