ODE ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky

Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'er canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great;

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows:
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring

And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,

In fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough mis chance

Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets.

No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone,We frolic while 'tis May.

THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE.

SMILES on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace,
And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While hope prolongs our happier
hour,

Or deepest shades, that dimly lower
And blacken round our weary way,
Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,

See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost

On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigor lost

And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gate. The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light

That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate

And black misfortune's baleful

train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murderous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,
And shame that skulks behind;

seen

Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace), Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murm'ring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring con-
straint

To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare de

scry,

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

youth,

Or jealousy with rankling tooth

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair,

And sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high To bitter scorn a sacrifice

And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,

And hard unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to

In the brave days of old."

The while I listened, till my blood, Plunged in the poet's martial mood, Rushed in my veins like wine,

I prayed,- to One who hears, I wis; "Give me one breath of power like this

To sing of Pittston mine!"

A child looks up the ragged shaft,
A boy whose meagre frame
Shrinks as he hears the roaring
draught

That feeds the eager flame.

He has a single chance; the stakes
Of life show death at bay
One moment; then his comrade takes
The hope he casts away.

For while his trembling hand is raised,
And while his sweet eyes shine,
There swells above the love of life
The rush of love divine,-

The thought of those unwarned, to whom

Death steals along the mine.

O little Martin Craghan!

I reck not if you swore, Like Porsena of Clusium,

By gods of mythic lore; But well I ween as great a heart Beat your small bosom sore.

And that your bare brown feet scarce felt

The way they bounded o'er. I know you were a hero then, Whate'er you were before; And in God's sight your flying feet Made white the cavern floor.

heart.

O God! what mysteries

Of brave and base make sum and part
Of human histories!

What will not thy poor creatures do
To buy an hour of breath!
Well for us all some souls are true
Above the fear of death!

He wept a little,- for they heard
The sound of sobs, the sighs
That breathed of martyrdom complete
Unseen of mortal eyes,-

Clasped to his little side, Dim eyes the wooden record read Hours after he had died.

Thus from all knowledge of his kind,
In darkness lone and vast,
From life to death, from death to life,
The little hero passed.

And, while they listened for the feet
That would return no more,
Far off they fell in music sweet
Upon another shore.