Sweet month! thy enlivenin' reign, To the years o' my youth I compare, When, brisk in the sports o' the plain, I kend neither sorrow nor care. My simmer was clouded wi' strife, Now sour-looking autumn is near Then winter, the e'enin' o' life, Shall finish my mortal career! The spring yet will smilin' return, An' scatter fresh flow'rs owre the plain; But pleasures that sweeten't life's morn, We ne'er can experience again! MAY. INSCRIBED TO "No birds sweetly singing, "Nor flowers gaily springing, "Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair." THE op'ning buds, and blossoms gay, And birds pour forth their melody. How sweet at morn the sylvan glade, And lovely spring walks forth array'd In all her fairest drapery! The glorious sun ascends on high, O'er all diffusing light, and joy With rapture ev'ry human eye Surveys great nature's scenery. BURNS. No tempests with resistless sweep, In dire commotion heave the deep; The jarring winds are lull'd asleep, And all is peace and harmony. But never can the joys of spring, Extract affliction's poison'd sting; Nor all her sweets an opiate bring To soothe the child of misery. No! never can the child of woe Feel nature's joy-inspiring glow; Nor smiling spring a charm bestow To blunt the edge of poverty. Ah no! the heart by anguish torn,, Recurs to life's delightful morn, The days that never will return,:. When all was mirth and gaiety. The pining wretch by want opprest, And sighs, "this season made me blest But thou whose heart is pity's throne, To still pale sorrow's secret groan To heal the wounds of woe is thine, Poor genius feels thy fost'ring care; And offers up a fervent pray'r, That Heav'n's best blessings thou may'st share In time, and through eternity! LINES ADDRESSED TO MY FRIEND MR. G-D NARROW ESCAPE FROM DEATH. "May he live ON HIS "Longer than I have time to tell his years!" WITH thee, my friend, sincerely I'll rejoice, And raise on high my ever-grateful voice, To that great BEING, who with tender care, In utmost danger, deign'd thy life to spare. SHAKES. What countless pangs that moment might have brought, While fancy paints the madd'ning scene of woe, Nor can I banish the tormenting train Of thoughts, that crowd upon my giddy brain; Just so the timid wand'rer of the night, Thinks on pale ghosts, and trembles with affright; |