ON yonder verdant hilloc laid,
Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade,.
O'erlook the falling stream,
O mafter of the Latin lyre,
A while with thee will I retire
From fummer's noontide beam..
And, lo, within my lonely bower,
The induftrious bee from many a flower
Collects her balmy dews:
"For me," fhe fings," the gems are born,,
"For me their filken robe adorn,
"Their fragrant breath diffuse.”
Sweet murmurer! may no rude storm
This hofpitable scene deform,
Nor check thy glad fome toils ;
Still may the buds unfullied spring,
Still fhowers and funshine court thy wing
To these ambrofial spoils..
Nor fhall my Muse hereafter fail
Her fellow-labourer thee to hail;
And lucky be the strains!
For long ago did nature frame
Your feafons and your arts the fame,-
Your pleasures and your pains.
Like thee, in lowly, fylvan fcenes,
On river-banks and flowery greens
My Mufe delighted plays;
Nor through the defart of the air,
Though fwans or eagles triumph there,
With fond ambition ftrays.
Nor where the boding raven chaunts,
Nor near the owl's unhallow'd haunts
Will the her cares imploy;
But flies from ruins and from tombs,
From fuperftition's horrid glooms,
To day-light and to joy.
Nor will the tempt the barren wafte;
Nor deigns the lurking ftrength to tafte
Of any noxious thing;
But leaves with fcorn to envy's ufe
The infipid nightshade's baneful juice,
The nettle's fordid fting.
From all which nature fairest knows,
The vernal blooms, the fummer rofe,
She draws her blamelefs wealth;
And, when the generous task is done,
She confecrates a double boon,
To pleasure and to health.
HE radiant ruler of the year
At length his wintery goal attains ; -
Soon to reverfe the long career,
And northward bend his steady reins..
Now, piercing half Potofi's height,
Prone rush the fiery floods of light
Ripening the mountain's filver ftores:
While in fome cavern's horrid fhade,
The panting Indian hides his head,
And oft the approach of eve implores.
But lo, on this deferted coaft
How pale the fun! how thick the air!
Muftering his storms, a fordid hoft,
Lo, winter defolates the year..
The fields refign their latest bloom;
No more the breezes waft perfume,
No more the streams in mufic roll:
But fnows fall dark, or rains refound;
And, while great nature mourns around,,
Her griefs infect the human foul.
Hence the loud city's bufy throngs
Urge the warm bowl and splendid fire :
Harmonious dances, feftive fongs
Against the spiteful heaven confpire,
Meantime perhaps with tender fears
Some village-dame the curfew hears,
While round the hearth her children play :
At morn their father went abroad;
The moon is funk, and deep the road ;
She fighs, and wonders at his stay..
But thou, my lyre, awake, arise,
And hail the fun's returning force:
Even now he climbs the northern skies,
And health and hope attend his courfe..
Then louder howl the aërial waste,
Be earth with keener cold embrac'd,
Yet gentle hours advance their wing;
And fancy, mocking winter's might,
With flowers and dews and streaming light
Already decks the new-born spring.
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