O DE S. ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours, 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 oaks thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, B Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how through the peopled air The insect-youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon: To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay In Fortune's varying colours dress'd: Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, |