O thou, with dewy locks, who lookest down 

Thro' the clear windows of the morning; turn 

Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, 

Which in full choir hails thy approach, 

O Spring! The hills tell each other, and the list'ning 

 Vallies hear; all our longing eyes are turned 

Up to thy bright pavillions: issue forth, 

And let thy holy feet visit our clime. 

 Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds 

Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste 

Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls 

Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee. 

 O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour 

Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put 

Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, 

 Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!