Come, GENTLE Spring! ethereal MILDNESS, come!
O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason,
How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum?
There's no such season.

The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name!
For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter!
And suffer from her BLOWS as if they came
From Spring the Fighter.

Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing,
And be her tuneful laureates and upholders,
Who do not feel as if they had a SPRING
Poured down their shoulders!

Let others eulogize her floral shows;
From me they can not win a single stanza.
I know her blooms are in full blow--and so's
The Influenza.

Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale,
Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at,
Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale,
Are things I sneeze at!

Fair is the vernal quarter of the year!
And fair its early buddings and its blowings--
But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear
With other sowings!