P 0 E MS.

B

Y

MR. GRA Y.

L O ! where the rosy-bosom'd hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckow's note,

The

The untaught harmony of spring :
While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where-e'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade ;
Where-e'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade * ;
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall fit, and think,
(At ease reclin'd in rustic ftate),
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 thro’ the peopled air
The busy murmur glows !
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honiéd spring,
And float amid the liquid noon * :
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some shew their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the fun p.

* Nare per æftatem liquidam

Virgil. Geórg. lib. 4.

- sporting with quick glance, Shew to the sun their wav'd coats dropt with gold. . '

Milton's Paradise Lost, book 7