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« Blow, ye breezes !-gently blowing !
“ Waft me to that happy shore, " Where from fountains ever flowing,
“ Indian realms their treasures pour ; 6. Thencé returning, poor in health,
“ Rich in honesty and wealth, “O'er thee, my dear paternal soil ! " I'll strew the golden harvest of my toil.
- Then shall Misery's sons and daughters
“ In their lowly dwellings sing : • Bounteous as the Nile's dark waters,
“ Undiscover'd as the spring, " I will scatter o'er the land
“ Blessings with a secret hand;“ For such angelic tasks design'd, - I give the Lyre and sorrow to the wind.”
On an oak, whose branches hoary
Sigh’d to every passing breeze,
Of the patriarch of trees;
Now no more to rapture strung; Then warm in hope, no longer pale, : He blush'd adieu, and rambled down the dale.
Lightly touch'd by fairy fingers,
Hark !—the Lyre enchants the wind;
-Lingering, listening, looks behind.
Sweetly swelling through the sky;
Now the strains to silence stealing,
Soft in ecstacies expire;
Poor ALCEUs grasps the Lyre !
In a tempest o'er the strings; He strikes the chords so quick, so loud, 'Tis Jove that scatters lightning from a cloud !
“ Lyre! O Lyret my chosen treasure,
“ Solace of my bleeding heart; “ Lyre! O Lyre! my only pleasure,
6 We will never, never part! “ Glory, Commerce, now in vain,
“ Tempt me to the field, the main ; & The Muse's sons are blest, though born " To cold neglect, and penury, and scoru.
* What, though all the world neglect me,
“ Shall my haughty soul repine ? " And shall poverty deject me,
While this hallow'd Lyre is mine ? “ Heaven--that o'er my helpless head
Many a wrathful vial shed, “ Heaven gave this Lyre --and thus decreed, " Be thou a bruis'd, but not a broken reed!"
Ah! why, unfeeling WINTER! why
Still flags thy torpid wing? Fly, Melancholy Season, fly.,
And yield the year to SPRING.
SPRING,—the young harbinger of love,
An exile in disgrace,-
Nor finds a resting-place.
When on the mountain's azure peak
Alights her fairy form, Cold blow the winds,-and dark and bleak
Around her rolls the storm.