O D E

ON THE

SPRING.

LO! where the rofy-bosom'd hours,

Fair VENUS' train, appear,

Disclose the long-expected flowers,

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Refponfive to the cuckow's note,
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 ftretch

A broader browner fhade;

Where-e'er the rude and mofs-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade;

Befide fome water's rushy brink

With me the Mufe fhall fit, and think,

(At ease reclin❜d in rustic state),

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 bufy murmur glows!

The infect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,

And

245

ODEON THE SPRING.

And float amid the liquid noon<

Some lightly o'er the current fkim,
Some fhew their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the fun.

To Contemplation's fober eye

Such is the race of man :

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest:

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mifchance,

Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance

They leave in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply;

Poor Moralift! and what art thou?

A folitary fly!

D 2

Thy

Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded fweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone→→→
We frolic while 'tis May.

ODE