E'n now, before the fun's foft heat, Sullen I fee thy train retreat : EURUS, with lightning in his hands, That on a tiger mounted stands ; High-figur'd on whose robe are shewn Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown: Grim AUSTER, dropping all with dew, And clad in veft of watchet hue: Next COLD, like Zemblan favage dreft, Who boldly bares his hardy breast: With him his brother, fur-clad FROST, His robe with icicles embost.

WINTER farewell! thy forefts hoar, Thy frozen floods delight no more; Farewell the fields, so bare and wild! But come thou rofe-cheek'd cherub mild, Sweeteft SUMMER! hafte thee here, Once more to crown the gladden'd year. Thee APRIL blythe, as long of yore Bermudas' vales he frolick'd o'er, (Such is his wont, at early prime, When the foft boughs begin to climb) To gather balm of choiceft dews, And patterns fair of various hues, With which to paint in changeful dye, The vernal year's embroidery ; To cull the effence of rich fmells

In which to dip his blooming bells;

Thee, as he rov'd with genial feet,
He found an infant, fmiling fweet;

Where a tall citron's boughs imbrown'd
The green lap of the graffy ground.
There long upon a roseate bed,

Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed ;
Till foon beneath his foft'ring care,
You bloom'd a goddess debonair;
And last he gave the blessed isle
Aye to be fway'd beneath thy fmile.
Hafte thee nymph! and hand in hand,
With thee bring a buxom band;
Ering fantastic-footed Joy,

With Sport that yellow-treffed boy,
Lead Health that loves, in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid in the lawn:
Lead Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace.
Meek cottage loving shepherdess!
Bring the dear Mufe, that loves to lean
On river-margins, moffy green.
But who is fhe, that bears thy train,
Pacing light the velvet plain ?

The pale pink crowns her auburn hair,
Her treffes flow with past'ral air;
Tis May the Grace-confest she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands:
Lo! near her trip the light-foot Dews
Their wings all dipt in iris-hues;

With whom lafcivious Zephyrs play,
And paint with panfies all the way.

Oft when thy feafon, fweeteft Queen,
Has dreft the groves in livery green ;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bow'r to build ;
While Evening, veil'd in fhadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,

And mifts in fpreading fteams convey
More fresh the fumes of new-fhorn hay;
Then, Goddess, guide my gladfome feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,

As flow he winds his museful way,
O'er the foft marge of filver Tay:
Or near thy brook, O fylvan Jed!
Where first, by meek-ey'd Nature led,
Thomson the rural Mufes woo'd
In numbers wild, of Dorian mood.
While thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet evening objects intervene :
His wattled cotes the fhepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.
And now the labourer I meet,

The low mist gathering at his feet:
Nor wants there fragrance all the while,
My foothed fenfes to beguile :
Nor tangled wood-bines balmy bloom,
Nor dewy grafs, to breathe perfume:

Nor lowly wild-thyme's fpicy fweet To bathe in dew my roving feet: Nor wants there note of Philomel, Nor found of distant-tinkling bell: Nor lowings faint of herds remote ; Nor maftiff's bark from lowly cott: Ruftle the breezes lightly born Or deep-embattell'd ears of corn: Round ancient elm, with humming noife, Beetles in thickening fwarms rejoice. Meantime, what mingling dies invest The golden chambers of the Weft! That all aslant the village tow'r A mild reflected radiance pour, While, with th' obliquely-ftreaming rays Far feen it's arched windows blaze: While the tall grove's green top is dight In ruffet hues, and gleams of light: So that the foft fcene by degrees Bathes my blythe heart in extafies And Fancy to my ravish'd fight Frames ever-varying visions bright; Like thofe her MILTON wont to dream, As by the pale moon's cloudlefs gleam, He rov'd to hear the bird of woe, Or found of Curfeu fwinging flow. Till from the path I fondly ftray In museings lapt, and lofe my way;

Wand'ring o'er the landscape still,
Till penfive Fancy has her fill;
Till o'er the fapphire-paven plain
Hefper leads his filver train.

But when the Sun, at noon-tide hour,
Sits throned in his highest tow'r ;
When sportive Leifure lays him down,
Of fpringing flow'rs to weave a crown,
All on a deep dale's funny fide
With yellow crocus gaily dy'd;
Me heart-rejoicing Goddess lead
To the tann'd hay-cock in the mead:
To walk in rural mood among,

Of nymphs and fwains, the toiling throng;
Or, as the tepid odours breath,

The ruffet piles to lean beneath:

There while at eafe my limbs are thrown
On couch more soft than palace down;
To listen to the busy found

Of mirth and toil that hums around;
To fee the team fhrill-tinkling pafs,
Alternate o'er the furrow'd grass.
Meantime, retir'd from toil and heat,
A fwain and blufhing maid are met,
In tender talk to plight their vows,
Beneath an hawthorn's hoary boughs.
But ever, after fummer-show'r,
When the glad fun's returning pow'r,