THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY. ODE I. 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 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 Still is the toiling hand of Care; Yet hark, how through the peopled air The insect-youth are on the wing, To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man; And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, ODE II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed Her conscious tail her joy declared; Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Still had she gazed; but midst the tide The hapless nymph with wonder saw: 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 |