WRITTEN IN SPRING. 'Tis pass'd: the iron North has spent his rage; 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 Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground 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, 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, Along the greensward, mark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blithsome shepherd's watchful eye, Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws; cause, And left the wondering multitude behind. Thus Ashley gather'd academic bays; 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, 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 more. 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 I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe; Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! 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 arise. BRUCE. THE VISIONARY. WHEN midnight o'er the moonless skies No shivering ghost my way pursues; Visions of long departed joys! The shade of youthful Hope is there, 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. WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE GARDEN, AT A VILLAGE IN LORRAIN. OCCASIONED BY A TRADITION CONCERNING A TREE OF ROSEMARY. O THOU, Arbustam loquitur. who love and fancy lead Stranger, if thy lot has laid In toilsome scenes of busy life, In a garden live with me, Flowers have sprung for many a year And, homeward walking, wept o'er me And soon, her cottage window near, With care my slender stem she placed; And fondly thus her grief embraced; And cherish'd sad remembrance dear: |