ON THE SPRING.

TO A LADY.

Lo! Spring array'd in primrose-colour'd robe, Fresh beauties sheds on each enliven'd scene, With showers and sunshine cheers the smiling globe, And mantles hill and vale in glowing green.

All nature feels her vital heat around,

The pregnant glebe now bursts with foodful grain; With kindly warmth she opes the frozen ground, And with new life informs the teeming plain.

She calls the fishes from their oozy beds,
And animates the deep with genial love;
She bids the herds bound sportive o'er the mead,
And with glad songs awakes the joyous grove.

No more the glaring tiger roams for prey,
All-powerful Love subdues his savage soul,
To find his spotted mate he darts away,

While gentler thoughts the thirst of blood control.

But ah! while all is warmth and soft desire,
While all around Spring's cheerful influence own,
You feel not, Amoret, her quickening fire,
To Spring's kind influence a foe alone.

TO A LADY

WHO HATES THE COUNTRY.

Now Summer, daughter of the Sun, O'er the gay fields comes dancing on, And earth o'erflows with joys; Too long in routs and drawing-rooms, The tasteless hours my fair consumes, Midst folly, flattery, noise.

Come hear mild zephyr bid the rose
Her balmy-breathing buds disclose,
Come hear the falling rill;
Observe the honey-loaded bee,
The beech-embower'd cottage see,
Beside yon sloping hill.

By health awoke at early morn,
We'll brush the dew from every thorn,
And help unpen the fold;

Hence to yon hollow oak we'll stray,
Where dwelt, as village-fables say,
An holy Druid old.

Come wildly rove through desert dales, To listen how lone nightingales

In liquid lays complain;

Adieu the tender thrilling note,
That pants in Monticelli's throat,
And Handel's stronger strain.

'Insipid pleasures these! (you cry)
Must I from dear assemblies fly
To see rude peasants toil?
For operas listen to a bird?
Shali Sidney's' fables be preferr'd
To my sagacious Hoyle2?'

O falsely fond of what seems great,
Of purple pomp and robes of state,
And all life's tinsel glare!

Rather with humble violets bind,
Or give to wander in the wind
Your length of sable hair.

Soon as you reach the rural shade,
Will Mirth, the sprightly mountain-maid,
Your days and nights attend;
She'll bring fantastic Sport and Song,
Nor Cupid will be absent long,
Your true ally and friend.

1 Arcadia; a romance by Sir Philip Sidney.

2 Alluding to those ladies who have left their Novels and Romances for the profound study of Mr. Hoyle's book on Whist.

ON THE

LOSS OF HIS FATHER, THE REV.
THOMAS WARTON,

VICAR OF BASINGSTOKE, HANTS, WHO DIED IN 1745.

No more of mirth and rural joys,
The gay description quickly cloys;
In melting numbers, sadly slow,
I tune my alter'd strings to woe;
Attend, Melpomene, and with thee bring
Thy tragic lute, Euphranor's death to sing.

Fond wilt thou be his name to praise,
For oft thou heard'st his skilful lays;
Isis, for him soft tears has shed,
She plac'd her ivy on his head;

Chose him, strict judge, to rule with steady reins
The vigorous fancies of her listening swains.

With genius, wit, and science bless'd,
Unshaken Honour arm'd his breast,
Bade him, with virtuous courage wise,
Malignant Fortune's darts despise ;

Him, e'en black Envy's venom'd tongues commend,
As Scholar, Pastor, Husband, Father, Friend.

For ever sacred, ever dear,

O much-lov'd shade! accept this tear;
Each night indulging pious woe,

Fresh roses on thy tomb I strow,

And wish for tender Spenser's moving verse,
Warbled in broken sobs o'er Sidney's herse.

Let me to that deep cave resort,
Where Sorrow keeps her silent court;
For ever wringing her pale hands,
While dumb Misfortune near her stands;
With downcast eyes the Cares around her wait,
And Pity sobbing sits before the gate.

Thus stretch'd upon his grave I sung,
When straight my ears with murmur rung;
A distant, deaf, and hollow sound

Was heard in solemn whispers round'Weep not for me, embath'd in bliss above, In the bright kingdoms bless'd of joy and love ''

ON SHOOTING.

NYMPHS of the forests, that young oaks protect
From noxious blasts, and the blue thunder's dart;
O how securely might ye dwell
In Britain's peaceful shades,

Far from grim wolves, or tigers' midnight roar,
Or crimson-crested serpents' hungry hiss,
But that our savage swains pollute
With murder your retreats!

How oft your birds have undeserving bled,
Linnet, or warbling thrush, or moaning dove,
Pheasant with gaily-glistering wings,
Or early-mounting lark!

1 Variation:

'Enough, dear Youth!-though wrap'd in bliss above, Well pleas'd I listen to thy lays of love.'

Subjoined to the edition of his father's poems, 1748.