SONNET XLIII.

My memory, long accustom'd to receive

In deep-engraven lines, each varying trait

Past Times and Seasons wore, can find no date

Thro’ many years, O! MAY, when thou hadst leave,

As now, of the great SUN, serene to weave

Thy fragrant chaplets; in poetic state

To call the jocund Hours on thee to wait,

Bringing each day, at morn, at noon, at eve,

His mild illuminations.— Nymph, no more

Is thine to mourn beneath the scanty shade

Of half-blown foliage, shivering to deplore

Thy garlands immature, thy rites unpaid;

Meads dropt withgold again to thee belong,

Soft gales, luxuriant bowers, and wood-land song.