ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours 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) Still is the toiling hand of Care; 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 In fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough mis chance Or chilled by age, their airy dance Methinks I hear in accents low 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 gale. The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 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! And black misfortune's baleful 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, And shame that skulks behind; Or pining love shall waste their 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 Illumed their faces, steeled each O'erwritten with the names he loved, heart. O God! what mysteries Of brave and base make sum and part What will not thy poor creatures do He wept a little,- for they heard Clasped to his little side, Dim eyes the wooden record read Hours after he had died. Thus from all knowledge of his kind, And, while they listened for the feet |