POEMS. Multum et veræ gloriæ, quamvis uno libro, meruit.—Quinctilian. ODE I. ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink (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, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon : No painted plumage to display : 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 Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue The hapless nymph with wonder saw : With many an ardent wish, 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, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all, that glisters, gold. And ye, that from the stately brow Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along 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, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race Disporting on thy margent green To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? 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, Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murth'rous band! Ah! tell them, they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Ambition this shall tempt to rise, |