ODE XLVI.[1]
Reading edition
ODE XLVI.[1]
Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing: While virgin Graces, warm with May; Fling roses o'er her dewy way. The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished into silent sleep; And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away; And cultured field, and winding stream, Are freshly glittering in his beam.
Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see, Nursing into luxury.
[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.