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Steal abroad, your time is come; doubt not once the new-blown hour; Winter's wickedness is past, And those long leaden nerveless moods Which frowned much worse than frozen woods Gone, as soft as thistle-wool Upon a zephyr's love-like breath; In animation beautiful Returns your chance; now wander with The sparkle on the living seas, Nor fear that in these green estates Ambushed may lieThe hooded serpent with the human eye; But all is opening garden-gates, Running mill-sails, fountain trees, Winged boats that water-jewels attend Where singingly they round the bend; And sounding works whose smoke lifts proud Through towers of force to yon rose-cloud From elemental engines poured— And both a glory to the Lord. From mill to steeple, day breaks pure; Your horse is on the road he wished, And away past suburb and colure Goes like the famous giant refreshed;
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