ODE ON THE SPRING.

L

O! where the rofy-bofom'd hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Refponfive to the cuckow's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches ftretch
A broader browner hade;

Where'er the rude and mofs-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade *,

Befide fome water's rushy brink

With me the Mufe fhall fit, and think
(At eafe reclin'd in ruftic state)

How vain the ardour of the Crowd,
How low, how little are the Proud,
How indigent the Great!

a bank

O'er-capopied with lufeious woodbine.

SHAKESP. MIDS. NIGHT'S DREAM.

Still is the toiling hand of Care:

The panting herd's repose:

Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The bufy murmur glows!

The infect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some fhew their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the fun t

To contemplation's sober eye ‡
Such is the race of Man :

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the Bufy and the Gay

But flutter through life's little day.
In Fortune's varying colours drest :
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave in dust to rest.

* « Nare per æftatem liquidam—”

VIRG. GEORG. LIB. IV.

fporting with quick glance

Shew to the fun their waved coats drop'd with gold. MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, BOOK VII.

While infects from the threshold preach, &c.

M. GREEN, IN THE GROTTO. DODSLEY'S MISCELLANIES, VOL. V. P. 161.

Methinks

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:

Poor Moralift! and what art thou?
A folitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded fweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown :
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone.
We frolick while 'tis May.

O D

E

ON THE DEATH OF A

FAVOURITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

TWAS on a lofty vafe's fide,

Where China's gayeft art had dy'd

The azure flowers, that blow;
Demureft of the tabby kind,
The penfive Selima reclin`d,
Gaz'd on the lake below.

Her confcious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the fnowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She faw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The Genii of the stream:

Their fcaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The

The hapless Nymph with wonder faw
A whisker firft, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat 's averfe to fish?

:

Prefumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again fhe bent,
Nor knew the gulph between.
(Malignant Fate fate by, and fmil'd)
The flippery verge her feet beguil'd,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to fend.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Sufan heard,
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one falfe step is ne'er retriev’d,
And be with caution bold.

Not all, that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize ;
Not all that glifters, gold.

ODE