He, When Young Spring Protrudes The Bursting Gems

He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems, Into his freshened soul; her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows And not an opening blossom breathes in vain. In summer he, beneath the living shade, Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung: Or what she dictates writes: and, oft an eye Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous year. When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, And tempts the sickled swain into the field, Seiz'd by the general joy, his heart distends With gentle throes, and through the tepid gleams Deep-musing, then he best exerts his song.