XLII. TO SHAKESPEARE. THOMSON. By yon hills with morning spread, By those golden waves of corn, By the woodlark, by the thrush By the fairy's shadowy tread O'er the cowslip's dewy head,- Glory of Eliza's age, Shakespeare! deign to lend thy face, This romantic nook to grace, Where untaught nature sports alone, Since thou and nature are but one. XLIII. ON THOMSON'S SEASONS. Lo! Thomson deigns to grace the bower I made, She lent her pencil too, of wondrous power, "Fade in my Seasons, let them live in thine: "And live they shall, the charm of every eye, "Till nature sickens, and the Seasons die." XLIV. THE EVENING PRIMROSE -LANGHORNE THERE are, that love the shades of life, To risk ambition's losing game: That, far from envy's lurid eye, The fairest fruits of genius rear; Content to see them bloom and die In friendship's small, but kindly sphere Than vainer flowers though sweeter far, Blooms only to the western star, In Eden's vale an aged hind, At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclined, With wonder view'd the opening flower. "Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow," In pity's simple thought he cries, "Thy bosom must not feel the glow "Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. "Nor thee, the vagrants of the field, "Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds, "When love has fill'd his heart with cares, |