Are not the genial brood of May;
That sun with light malignant glares,
And flatters only to betray.
‘Stern Winter’s reign is not yet past—
Lo! while your buds prepare to blow,
On icy pinions comes the blast,
And nips your root, and lays you low.
‘Alas, for such ungentle doom!
But I will shield you; and supply
A kindlier soil on which to bloom,