Hunting the Hare

Hence! I scorn thee pining Sorrow!
'Tis the new born hour of May,
Tho' thou com'st again tomorrow,
Joy shall be my guest today.
Hark! the birds on soaring wing,
Their strains of joyous welcome sing,
Nymphs, and Swains in neat array,
All throng to hail propitious May.

Yester Eve, with eager fingers,
Crowds of beauteous Maids I found,
Gathering up the dew that lingers,
On the May-blooms, budding round.
May's first dew they all suppose,
Will long preserve their cheek's soft rose,
And o'erjoy'd the month they view,
The Friend of Love, and Beauty too.

But alas! in spite of Reason,
Still I yield to grief's controul,
Tell me Sages, where's the Season,
That can glad the woe-worn Soul?
Hopeless love, nor May's soft smile,
Nor Summer's charms, of pangs beguile,
No—tho' Spring her smiles impart,
Still, still, 'tis Winter in my heart.