A Petition to April, Written During Sickness by Susanna Blamire

Lyrics

Sweet April! month of all the year That loves to shed the dewy tear And with a soft but chilly hand The silken leaves of flowers expand; Thy tear--set eye shall I ne'er see Weep o'er a sickly plant like me? Thou art the nurse of infant flowers The parent of relenting showers; Thy tears and smiles when newly born Hang on the cheek of weeping Morn While Evening sighs in seeming grief O'er frost--nipp'd bud or bursting leaf Once Pity held thee in hеr arms And, breathing all her gentlе charms Bade thy meek smile o'ertake the tear And Hope break loose from trembling Fear; Bade clouds that load the breast of Day On melting Twilight weep away; She bade thee, when the breezy Morn Kiss'd the sweet gem that deck'd the thorn O'er the pale primrose softly pour The nectar of a balmy shower; And is the primrose dear to thee? And wilt thou not give health to me? See how I droop! my strength decays And life wears out a thousand ways; Supporting friends their cordials give And wish, and hope, and bid me live; With this short breath it may not be Unless thou lend'st a sigh to me O! fan me with a gentler breeze; Invite me forth with busy bees; And bid me trip the dewy lawn Adorn'd with wild flowers newly blown; O! do not sternly bid me try The influence of a milder sky; I know that May can weave her bower And spot, and paint, a richer flower; Nor is her cheek so wan as thine; Nor is her hand so cold as mine; Nor bears she thy unconstant mind But ah! to me she ne'er was kind To thee I'll rear a mossy throne And bring the violet yet unblown; Then teach it just to ope its eye And on thy bosom fondly die; Embalm it in thy tears, and see If thou hast one more left for me In thy pale noon no roses blow Nor lilies spread their summer snow; Nor would I wish this time--worn cheek In all the blush of health to break; No; give me ease and cheerful hours And take away thy fairer flowers; So may the rude gales cease to blow And every breeze yet milder grow Till I in slumber softly sleep Or wake but to grow calm and weep; And o'er thy flowers in pity bend Like the soft sorrows of a friend