L

O D E

O N THE

SPRING.

O! where the rofy-bofom'd hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Refponfive to the cukow's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner fhade;

Where'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!

a bank

O'ex-canopied with luscious woodbine.

SHAKESP. MIDS. NIGHT'S DREAM.

Still is the toiling hand of Care:

The panting herd's repose:

Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The bufy murmur glows!

The infect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon *:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some fhew their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the fun t.

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 Bufy and the Gay

But flutter through 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 duft to rest.

Nare per æftatem liquidam —”

+

VIRG. GEORG. LIB. IV.

fporting with quick glance

Shew to the fun their waved coats drop'd with gold.

MILTON'S PARADISE LOST, BOOK VII.

While infects from the threshold preach, &c.

M. GREEN, IN THE GROTTO. DODSLEY'S MISCELLANIES, vol. v. p. 161.

Methinks

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply;

Poor Moralift! and what art thou?

A folitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering 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 frolick while 'tis May.

ODE

O D

D E

ON THE DEATH OF A

FAVOURITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

"TWAS on a lofty vafe's fide,

Where China's gayeft art had dy'd

The azure flowers that blow ;
Demureft of the tabby kind,
The penfive Selima reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.

Her confcious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the fnowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoife vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She faw; and purr'd applause.

Still had the gaz'd; but 'midft the tide
Two angel forms were feen to glide,

The Genii of the ftream:

Their fcaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple to the view

Betray'd a golden gleam.

The

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize;
What female heart can gold defpife?
What Cat's averfe to fish?

Prefumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again fhe ftretch'd, again fhe bent,
Nor knew the gulph between.
(Malignant Fate fate by, and smil'd})
The flippery verge her feet beguil'd,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery god,
Some speedy aid to fend.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid ftirr'd;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard,
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold.

Not all, that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedlefs hearts, is lawful prize;
Not all that glifters, gold.

ODE