POEMS. ODE I. ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, The attic warbler pours her throat, 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 reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour 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 through the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day, Methinks I hear in accents low Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, ODE II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Her conscious tail her joy declar'd; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide The genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless nymph with wonder saw : She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood No dolphin came, no nereid stirr'd; From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd, Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And ye, that from the stately brow Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among His silver-winding way. Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade, Where once my careless childhood stray'd, I feel the gales, that from ye blow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, And, redolent of joy and youth, Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Who foremost now delight to cleave To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, |