SPRING.

AGAIN the blossom'd hedge is seen The turf again is dress'd in smiling green Again the lark ascends the sky, Winnows the air, and lessens in the eye. The swallow, that the meads forsock, Revisits now, and skims along the brook. The daw to steeple-top up-springs, And the rook spreads his ventilating wings. The feather'd tribe, on ev'ry spray, Chant lively carols to the vernal day, Each lengthening morn's diurnal light Beams fresher beauties on the raptured sight. The leaves hang clustering on the trees, And health comes riding on the tepid breeze. Where'er the Goddess fans her way, Creation feels her universal sway.

The garden moist, with April showers, Teems with a family of laughing flowers. Not even a ray, or drop of rain,

But what impregnates, nor that shines in vain. Yet though the bounteous hand of Heaven, All good, this liberality has given,

Beyond our wishes amply kind,

Ingratitude still stains the human mind.
Man sees, around, celestial power,

And thankless tastes the blessings of each hour.
He reaps the produce of the plains,

And meanly thinks it tribute for his pains.
Fond wretch! the sordid thought forbear,
Nor to thy narrow self confine thy care;
For know, the Deity, who gives to-day,
To-night may blast thy crops, and snatch thy soul

away.

HYMN TO THE MORNING,

WRITTEN IN SUMMER.

HAIL, Goddess of the silver star,
Whose twinkling orb gives signal to the day;
O queen of light, whose virgin ray

The Sun salutes in his celestial car

Whose active heats melt every cloud
That would thy dawn of glory shroud,
And stain the lustre of thy laughing eye,
While beneath thy azure sky

Dimple-cheek'd Health with rosy feature glows, Through lowing pastures on she goes,

Wearing the milk-maid's ruddy grace,

Ease in her tripping step, and pleasure in her face.

Fore-runner of the day's bright reign,
And giver of unspeakable delight!
How Nature triumphs at thy sight,

And looks thanksgiving through her large domain:
At thy approach, the conscious trees
Bend humbly to the tepid breeze,

And every flower a fresher brightness wears,

Labour to the field repairs,

Where buxom Ceres waits him with a smile,
Whistling he crosses every stile,

Or chants some love-lorn ditty's air, With which he means to charm, and win his favourite fair.

O sovereign of the spicy gale,

Of odours pure, and salutary dews,
Oft as thy star its beam renews,

Thy violet breath entranced let me inhale:
Give me to range thy wholesome hills,
Thy vallies wash'd with crystal rills,

And verdant laws, where many a wild flower

grows.

There while Zephyr softly blows,

Let me indulge the heaven-devoted thought,

And render praises, as I ought,

To him whose power and love divine Call'd thee from total void, and bade thy beauty shine.

ODE,

TO EVENING.

THOU tranquil daughter of the day?
On whose fair face autumnal Zephyrs play;
O'er whose serene unclouded eye

Sol sheds the mildest lustre of the sky.
Thee undisturb'd, oh let me hail,

And tread the carpet of thy verdant vale;
Near which, with bonnet wheaten-bound,
Sits Ceres listening to the sheep-bells' sound;
Or let me woo thee by the stream
Obliquely gilded by the western beam,

While flies and gnats unnumber'd throng,
And faintly murmur no unpleasing song.
Now, to enjoy the silent hour,

The lark descends from his aerial tower';
Apollo is reclined to rest

Upon the down of Amphitrite's breast;
The bird, who loves the coming night,
Hoots querulous, and flaps his wing for flight;
With wheeling plume the bat flits by,
And mocks th' imperfect motion of the eye;
The buzzing chafer here and there
Spreads his gauze wings, and spins along the air
But dark-ey'd night (so Heaven ordains)
Comes nodding on, and blackens all the plains.
The pleasing scenes, which Nature drew,
Are clouded o'er, and vanish'd from the view.
The splendid morn, the noon of day,

And all the shades of evening are away ;
But soon the splendid morn again
-Shall radiate all the firmamental plain,
And soon the Sun's meridian ray,
Zenith'd on high, shall give us back the day;
And Evening! thou, with aspect bland,
Shalt pour thy lengthening shadow o'er the land,
Such is thy pictured life O man,

Which daily dies, and fades as it began.