ODE TO THE CUCKOO.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!

Thou messenger of spring!

Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;

Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers;
And hear the sound of music sweet,

Of birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wand'ring through the wood,
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale;

An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

Logan.

RESPICE FINEM.

To be as wise as Cato was,

And rich as Cræsus in his life;

To have the strength of Hercules,
Which did subdue by force or strife;
What helpeth it, when death doth call?
The happy end exceedeth all.

The rich may well the poor relieve;
The rulers may redress each wrong;
The learned may good counsel give;

But mark the end of this my song:
Who doth these things, happy they call;
The happy end exceedeth all.

The happiest end in these our days,
That all do seek, both small and great,
Is but for fame, or else for praise,—
Or, who may sit in higher seat;
But of these things, hap what hap shall,
The happy end exceedeth all.

A good beginning oft we see,

But seldom standing at one stay; For few do like the mean degree,

Then praise at parting, some men say The thing whereto each wight is thrall, The happy end exceedeth all.

The mean estate, that happy life,
Which liveth under governance;

Who seeks no hate, nor breeds no strife,
But takes in worth his happy chance:
If contentation him befall,

His happy end exceedeth all.

The longer life that we desire,

The more offence doth daily grow;

The greater pain it doth require,

Except the judge some mercy show: Wherefore I think, and ever shall,

The happy end exceedeth all.

Paradise of Dainty Devises.

TO THE LADIES.

On Davison's Palmyrene, or violet-scented Soap.

A DAVISON once urg'd his queen to sign.
Her fatal sentence on a form divine;

Yet, sure, that victim's face, ador'd by all,
With mightier impulse sped her hapless fall.

To keep awhile such graces from the tomb,
To fix their fleeting snows, their transient bloom,
Our modern Davison from Syria's plains

His bright restorative of beauty drains.
'Tis his to change (the veil of time withdrawn)
Life's clouded ev'ning to its purple dawn,
And, 'spite of sorrow's waste, or youth's decay,
Recall the sunshine of our vernal day.

For this Palmyra's gloomy vaults explor'd, A long lost treasure yields its ample hoard; And Davison, exulting, joys to bear Zenobia's arts to grace the British fair.

No pois'nous unguent here, with styptic power, Shrinks the parch'd forehead like a rivell'd flower; No acid wash, with treach'rous skill prepar'd, Corrodes the bosom it pretends to guard; For tints more chaste to Davison repair,

There health resides, and Hymen triumphs there.

His safe cosmetics genial force retain,
Point the dull glance, and clear th' incumber'd vein;
On Chloe's hand innoxious sapphires spread,

And tinge her cheeks with salutary red;
Such aids the ball, the romp, the kiss defy,
Nor drop their ensigns till their leaders die.

If wealth like this your Davison imports, Ye British dames, to you his hope resorts! Let your soft voice his eastern stores proclaim, Exalt their merits, and protect their fame: Nor think your praise the living only knowIts magic influence rules the world below. While Syria's spoils your growing charms adorn, Her vanquish'd heroine shall no longer mourn : Palmyra thus shall think her wrongs repaid, And added glory crown Zenobia's shade

In the wrapper of Davison's Soap.

ON A FOP TURNED EPICURE.

SAVING, you say, Jack Selfish grows,
Because he's seen in shabbier clothes,
But you mistake, I tell ye:

A selfish spendthrift still is Jack,

And that which lately vamp'd his back,
Now goes to gorge his belly.