Melts March frosts, and returning with a gay,
Late Zephyr laughs the Dog-star’s heats away;
To Summer, that at call, whate’er the Hour,
Re-stocks the fold, and bids the orchard flow’r.
Fruitfulness everywhere—all things good;
No savage lions, tigers mad for blood,
No scaly pythons, gathered, coil on coil,
Into one orb, to hurl it on the spoil;
No wolf’s-bane, with its mystic-purple bloom
Tempting rash herb-collectors to their doom;