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WRITTEN IN SPRING. 'Tis pass'd: the iron North has spent his rage;
Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether western breezes play. Of genial heat and cheerful light the source,
From southern climes, beneath another sky, The sun, returning, wheels his golden course;
Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. Far to the north grim Winter draws his train
To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign; Where whirlwinds madden, and where tem
pests roar. Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around,
Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. Behold! the trees new deck their wither'd boughs;
Their ample leaves the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose ;
The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen,
Puts on the robe she neither sew'd nor spun: The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. Soon as o’er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; And cheerful singing, up the air she steers ; Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she
On the green furze, clothed o’er with golden blooms
That fill the air with fragrance all around, The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes,
While o'er the wild his broken notes resound.
While the sun journeys down the western sky,
The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around.
Now is the time for those who wisdom love,
Who love to walk in Virtue's flowery road, Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's God.
Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind;
Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praise,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;
My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn,
And gather'd health from all the gales of morn. And, e'en when Winter chill’d the aged year,
I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain : Though frosty Boreas warn'd me to forbear,
Boreas, with all his tempests, warn’d in vain.
Then sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days;
I fear'd no loss, my mind was all my store; No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease;
Heaven gave content and health-I ask'd no
Now Spring returns; but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known; Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shivering in the inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
And count the silent moments as they pass : The winged moments, whose unstaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest; Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest. Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are true : Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu. I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;
I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more. Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound, Where melancholy with still silence reigns, And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless
There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes; The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me sleep forgotten in the clay,
When death shall shut these weary aching eyes; Rest in the hopes of an eternal day, Till the long night is gone, and the last morn
WHEN midnight o’er the moonless skies
Her pall of transient death has spread, When mortals sleep, when spectres rise,
And nought is wakeful but the dead;
No shivering ghost my way pursues ;
No bloodless shape my couch annoys ;
Visions of long departed joys!
That linger'd long, and latest died;
With phantom honours at her side. What empty shadows glimmer nigh?
They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love : Oh! die to thought, to memory die, Since lifeless to my heart ye prove !
HON, W, SPENCER.
IN A COTTAGE GARDEN,
AT A VILLAGE IN LORRAIN.
OCCASIONED BY A TRADITION CONCERNING A TREE OF
O THOU, who love and fancy lead
To wander near this woodland hill,
If ever music smooth'd thy quill, Or pity waked thy gentle reed;
Repose beneath my humble tree,
If thou lovest simplicity. Stranger, if thy lot has laid
In toilsome scenes of busy life,
Full sorely mayst thou rue the strife Of weary passions ill repaid.
In a garden live with me,
If thou lovest simplicity.
O'er the village maiden's grave,
That, one memorial sprig to save, Bore it from a sister's bier;
And, homeward walking, wept o'er me
The true tears of simplicity.
With care my slender stem she placed ;
And fondly thus her grief embraced ; And cherish'd sad remembrance dear :