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AN Heralds of the Sun and Summer gale! That seem just fallen from infant Zephyrs' wing; Not now, as once, with heart revived I hail Your modest buds, that for the brow of Spring Form the first simple garland—Now no more Escaping for a moment all my cares, Shall I, with pensive, silent step, explore The woods yet leafless; where to chilling airs Your green and pencil'd blossoms, trembling, wave. Ah! ye soft, transient children of the ground, More fair was she on whose untimely grave Flow my unceasing tears! Their varied round The Seasons go; while I through all repine: For fixt regret, and hopeless grief are mine.