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'Tis thus life's cheerful seasons roll away;
Thus threats the winter of inclement age; Our time of action but a summer's day ;
And earth's frail orb the sadly-varied stage !
And does no Pow'r its friendly aid dispense,
Nor give us tidings of some happier clime? Find we no guide in gracious Providence
Beyond the stroke of death, the verge of time?
Yes, yes ! The sacred oracles we hear,
That point the path to realms of endless day; That bid our hearts, nor death nor anguish fear,
This future transport, that to life the way.
Then let us timely for our flight prepare,
And form the soul for her divine abode ; Obey the call, and trust the Leader's care
To bring us safe through Virtue's paths to God,
Let no fond love for earth exact a sigh,
No doubts divert our steady steps aside; Nor let us long to live, nor dread to die;
Heav'n is our Hope, and Providence our Guide.
WRITTEN APRIL, MDCCXLIX.
At length the winter's surly blasts are o'er;
Array'd in smiles the lovely spring returns : Health to the breeze unbars the screaming door,
And every breast with heat celestial burns.
Again the daisies peep, the violets blow;
Again the tenants of the leafy grove, Forgot the patt’ring hail, the driving snow,
Resume the lay to melody and love.
And see, my DELIA, see o'er yonder stream,
Where on the sunny bank the lambkins play; Alike attracted to th' enliv'ning gleam,
The stranger-swallows take their wonted way.
Welcome, ye gentle tribe, your sports pursue,
Welcome again to DELIA, and to me; Your peaceful councils on my roof renew,
And plan your settlements from danger free.
No tempest on my shed its fury pours,
My frugal hearth no noxious blast supplies ; Go, wand'rers, go, repair your sooty bow'rs,
Think, on no hostile roof my chimnies rise.
Again I'll listen to your grave debates,
I'll think I hear your various maxims told, Your numbers, leaders, politics, and states,
Your limits settled, and your tribes enrollid.
I'll think I hear you tell of distant lands,
What insect-nations rise from Egypt's mud, What painted swarms subsist on Lybia's sands,
What mild Euphrates yields, and Ganges' flood.
Thrice happy race! whom Nature's call invites
To travel o’er her realms with active wing, To taste her choicest stores, her best delights,
The summer's radiance, and the sweets of spring:
While we are doom'd to bear the restless change
Of shifting seasons, vapours dank, or dry, Forbid, like you, to milder climes to range,
When wintry clouds deform the troubled sky.
But know the period to your joys assign'd!
Know ruin hovers o'er this earthly ball; Certain as fate, and sudden as the wind,
Its secret adamantine props shall fall.
Yet, when your short-liv'd summers shine no more,
My patient mind, sworn foe to vice's way, Sustain'd on lighter wings than yours,
shall soar To fairer realms beneath a brighter ray;
To plains etherial, and Elysian bowers,
Where wintry storms no rude access obtain, Where blasts no light'ning, and no thunder low'rs,
But spring and joy unchang'd for ever reign.