ODE I. ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies 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 How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! 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, To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day, Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive, kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is goneWe frolic, while 'tis May. ODE II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes. 'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, The pensive Selima, reclined, Her conscious tail her joy declared; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide The hapless nymph with wonder saw : A whisker first 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 averse to fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes, ODE III. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. "Ανθρωπος ἱκανὴ πρόφασις εἰς τὸ δυστυχεῖν. MENANDER. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, Where grateful Science still adores And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way! Ah happy rills! ah pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood stray'd A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, To breathe a second spring. M |