[From The Seasons.] BIRDS, AND THEIR LOVES. WHEN first the soul of love is sent abroad Warm through the vital air, and on the heart Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin, In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing; And try again the long-forgotten strain, At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows The soft infusion prevalent, and wide, Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows In music unconfined. Upsprings the lark, Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn; Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts Calls up the tuneful nations. Every Of new-sprung leaves their modulations mix Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw, And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone, Aid the full concert: while the stockdove breathes A melancholy murmur through the whole. 'Tis love creates their melody, and all This waste of music is the voice of love, That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts pleasing, teaches. glossy kind Hence, the Of Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around, With distant awe, in airy rings they rove, Endeavoring by a thousand tricks to catch The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance Of their regardless charmer. Should she seem Softening the least approvance to bestow, Their colors burnish, and by hope inspired, They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck, Retire disordered; then again approach; In fond rotation spread the spotted wing, And shiver every feather with desire. Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! What black despair, what horror fills his heart! When for the dusky spot, which fancy feigned His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and blest abode his mind, Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent! beyond the power of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, Smoothed up with snow; and, what is land, unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks, Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death; Mixed with the tender anguish na ture shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, pros ALL conquest-flushed, from trate Python, came The quivered god. In graceful act he stands, His arm extended with the slackened bow; Light flows his easy robe, and fair displays A manly softened form. The bloom of gods Seems youthful o'er the beardless cheek to wave: His features yet, heroic ardor warms; And sweet subsiding to a native smile, Mixed with the joy elating conquest gives, A scattered frown exalts his matchless air. The Queen of Love arose, as from the deep She sprung in all the melting pomp of charms. Bashful she bends, her well-taught look aside Turns in enchanting guise, where dubious mix They hate to mingle in the filthy fray, Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows, Embittered more from peevish day to day. E'en those whom fame has lent her fairest ray, The most renowned of worthy wights of yore, From a base world at last have |