APRIL.
FROM THE FRENCH.
April, season blest and dear,
Hope of the reviving year;
Promise of bright fruits that lie
In their downy canopy,
Till the nipping winds are past,
And their vails aside are cast!
April, who delight’st to spread
O’er the emerald-laughing mead
Flowers of fresh and brilliant dyes,
Rich in wild embroideries!
April, who each zephyr’s sigh
Dost with perfumed breath supply,
When they through the forest rove,
Spreading wily nets of love,
That, for lovely Flora made,
May detain her in the shade!
April, by thy hand caressed,
Nature, from her genial breast,
Loves her richest gifts to shower,
And awakes her magic power,
Till all earth and air are rife
With delight, and hope, and life!
April, nymph forever fair,
On my mistress’ sunny hair,
Scattering wreaths of odors sweet,
For her snowy bosom meet!
April, full of smiles and grace,
Drawn from Venus’ dwelling-place;
Thou, from earth’s enamel’d plain,
Yield’st the gods their breath again.
’Tis thy courteous hand doth bring
Back the messenger of spring;
And his tedious exile o’er,
Hail’st the swallow’s wing once more.
The eglantine, the hawthorn bright,
The thyme and pink, and jasmine white,
Don their purest robes to be
Guests, fair April, worthy thee.
The nightingale—sweet hidden sound!
'Midst the clustering boughs around,
Charms to silence notes that wake
Soft discourse from bush and brake,
And bids every listening thing
Pause awhile to hear her sing.
’Tis to thy return we owe
Love’s fond sighs, that learn to glow
After winter’s chilling reign
Long has bound them in her chain.
’Tis thy smile to being warms
All the busy, shining swarms,
Which, on perfumed pillage bent,
Fly from flower to flower intent,
Till they load their golden thighs
With the treasure each supplies.
May may boast her ripened hues,
Richer fruits, and flowers, and dews,
And those glowing charms that well
All the happy world can tell;
But, sweet April, thou shalt be
Still a chosen month for me.
* * * * *
Translation of Miss Costello. Remi Belleau, 1528–1577.