[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
Try every winning way inventive love
Can dictate, and in courtship to their
mates

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