ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF SPRING.

By the late Mr. Richard West.

DEAR Gray, that always in my heart
Possessest far the better part,

What mean these sudden blasts that rise
And drive the Zephyrs from the skies?
O join with mine thy tuneful lay,
And invocate the tardy May.

Come, fairest Nymph, resume thy reign!
Bring all the Graces in thy train!
With balmy breath and flowery tread,
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed;
Where, in Elysian slumber bound,
Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round.
Awake, in all thy glories drest,
Recall the Zephyrs from the west;
Restore the sun, revive the skies,
At mine, and Nature's call, arise!
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay,
And misses her accustom'd May.
See all her works demand thy aid;
The labours of Pomona fade :
A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree;
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee;
The birds forget to love and sing;
With storms alone the forests ring.

Come, then, with Pleasure at thy side,
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide;
Create, where'er thou turn'st thine eye,
Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony :
Till ev'ry being share its part,

And Heaven and Earth be glad at heart.

1 ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

Me quoque Musarum studium sub nocte silenti
Artibus assuetis solicitare solet.

Claudian

ENOUGH of fabling, and th' unhallow'd haunts
Of Dian' and of Delia, names profane,

Since not Diana nor all Delia's train

Are subjects that befit a serious song;

For who the bards among

May but compare with thee, lamented Gray!
Whose pensive, solemn lay,

Drew all the list'ning shepherds in a ring,
Well pleased to hear thee sing

Thy moving notes, on sunny hill or plain,
And catch new grace from thy immortal strain.
O wood-hung Menaï, and ye sacred groves
Of Delphi, we still venerate your names,
Whose awful shades inspired the Druids' dreams.
Your recess, though imagined, Fancy loves,
And through these long-lost scenes delighted roves :
So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames,
And as they sing shall say,

'Twas there of old where mused illustrious Gray!
By Isis' banks his tuneful lays would suit,

To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho's Lesbian lute.

Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on,
Till sable Night resumed her ebon throne,
And taught us, in his melancholic mood,
To scorn the great, and love the wise and good;
Told us, 'twas virtue never dies,

And to what ills frail mankind open lies;

How safe through life's tempestuous sea to steer, Where dang'rous rocks, and shelves and whirlpools, oft

appear.

And when fair Morn arose again to view,
A fairer landscape still he drew,

That blooms like Eden in his charming lays,
The hills and dales, and Heav'n's cerulean blue,
Brighten'd o'er all by Sol's resplendent rays.

The musky gale, in rosy vale,

And gilded clouds on azure hills,

The fragrant bow'rs, and painted flow'rs,
And tinklings of the silver rills;

The very insects, that in sunbeains play,
Turn useful monitors in his grave moral lay.

But ah! sad Melancholy intervenes,

And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes
'Tis her, alas! we often find

The troubler of each great unbounded mind,
And, leagued with her associate Fear

Will tremble lest the turning sphere,

And sinking earth, and reeling planets run

In dire disorder with the falling sun.

But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er ;

'Tis we must weep, though thou shalt grieve no more. Through other scenes thou now dost rove,

And clothed with gladness walk'st the courts above
And listen'st to the heavenly choir,

Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyrs.
Safe with them in those radiant climes of bliss,
Thou now enjoy'st eternal happiness.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

By the Earl of Carlisle.

WHAT spit's that which mounts on high, Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse? His white robes flutter to the gale:

They wing their way to yonder opening sky, In-glorious state through yielding clouds they sail, And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.

What avails the poet's art?

What avails his magic hand?
Can he arrest Death's pointed dart,

Or charm to sleep his murderous band?

Woll I know thee, gentle shade!

That tuneful voice, that eagle eye-
Quick bring me flowers that ne'er shall fade,
The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die;

With every honour deck his funeral bier,
For he to every Grace and every Muse was dear'

The listening Dryad, with attention still,
On tiptoe oft would near the poet steal,
To hear him sing upon the lonely hill

Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale,

The distant hamlet, and the winding stream,
The steeple shaded by the friendly yew,
Sunk in the wood the sun's departing gleam,
The grey-robed landscape stealing from the view.
•Or wrapt in solemn thought, and pleasing woe,
O'er each low tomb he breathed his pious strain,
A lesson to the village swain,

And taught the tear of rustic grief to flow!

Alluding to Mr. Gray's Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.

•But soon with bolder note, and wilder flight, O'er the loud strings his rapid hand would run :

Mars hath lit his torch of war,

Ranks of heroes fill the sight!

Hark! the carnage is begun!

And see the furies through the fiery air

[bear.

O'er Cambria's frighten'd land the screams of horror

+Now, led by playful Fancy's hand,

O'er the white surge he treads with printless feet,
To magic shores he flies, and fairy land,

Imagination's blest retreat.

Here roses paint the crimson way,

No setting sun, eternal May.

Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane,
When Bacchus leads the madd'ning train,
His bosom glowing with celestial are,
To harmony he struck the goiden lyre;
To harmony each hill and valley rung!
The bird of Jove, as when Apollo'sung,
To melting bliss resign'd his furious soul,
With milder rage his eyes began to roll,
The heaving down his thrilling joys confest,
Till by a mortal's hand subdued he sunk to rest.
$0, guardian angel of our early day,

Henry, thy darling plant must bloom no more! By thee attended, pensive would he stray, [shore.

Where Thames, soft-murmuring, laves his winding

Thou bad'st him raise the moralizing song,

Through life's new seas the little bark to steer; The winds are rude and high, the saiior young; Thoughtless, he spies no furious tempest near, Till to the poet's hand the helm you gave, From hidden rocks an infant crew to save!

t

*The Bard, a Pindaric Ode.

+ The Progress of Poetry, a Pindaric Ode.
Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College.