GENTLE Herald of the Spring,
Gliding swift on wandering wing,
Say from what distant climes returned
Thou viewest Britannia's realm again,
And skimming o'er the primrose plain,
Pursuest in extacy thine airy flight,
Oft gazing with increased delight
On her fair fields, with softest verdure crowned,
While April spreads his chequered gems around.
Comest thou from Afric's sultry waste,
To shun her summer's scorching heat;
Where fiercely gleaming o'er the blasted heath,
The dry Harmattan breathes the gale of death?
Or comest thou from some secret cave,
Waked from thy long repose,
Where wintery winds around thee blew,
And fell the driving snows;
Where storms unheeded rent the troubled air,
While every field was bleak, and every tree was bare?
Or, sunk beneath the whelming tide,
Could thy feathered form reside,
And, strange to tell! by secret charms,
While Naiads waved their circling arms,
In liquid crystal pass the wintery gloom,
'Till earth again displayed her vernal bloom?
But, from whatever spot arrived,
The muse shall hail thy sight;
And to the joys of Britain's clime
With welcome voice invite :
Long, little wanderer, be thy stay
Within our sea-girt Isle !
And Summer yield her softest sweets
To pay thy pleasing toil!
And many a fresh returning year
Again survey thy swift career:
And thy early note again
Haply please the rural swain,
While twittering o'er the straw-built shed,* Thou
wakest him from his lowly bed."
Still, sweet bird, may young Delight
Animate thy circling flight;
And Air her choicest food supply,
To rear thy infant progeny.
Late retire on glossy wing,
Gentle Herald of the Spring
FOND plaything of my brighter hours,
Vibrating once to notes of gladness,
By flattering Hope once crowned with flowers,
Thy master's heart now sinks in sadness!
That heart, which once, in deepest gloom,
Watched for a more auspicious morrow;
Now keenly mourns its final doom,
Unmingled grief, and endless sorrow,
Oh! then, if, in some happier day,
Thy chords awoke the song of pleasure,
Now pour a soul-dissolving lay,
A mournful note, a plaintive measure.
If ever this presumptuous hand
Crowned thee with flowers, those flowers are faded; Henceforth, by Misery's stern command,
Be with congenial cypress shaded!
No more, at Autumn's placid eve,
Shall softest zephyrs, round thee playing,
With dreams of fancied bliss deceive
A heart on which Despair is preying.
But, pendant on some leafless tree,
Through which November's blasts are mourning,
Thy hollow sounds a dirge shall be
For hours of joy no more feturning!
If, at that hour, by fortune led,
Forgetful JULIA should pass by thee;
May howling gusts, portentous, dread,
With saddest notes of grief supply thee!
Who knows, but from that plaintive sound,
Her heart some sympathy may borrow;
And, on that brow, where anger frowned,
Be seen some transient gleam of sorrow,
Yet, O my Lyre! if down that cheek
One soft, relenting tear be stealing,
In softest tones of pity speak,
And blunt each harsher, keener feeling!
For still, to me, her peace is dear,
Still this distracted brain' remembers
The hours when bright-eyed Hope was near,
And fans expiring passion's embers.
Nor can those embers ever die ;-
Though every dream of hope be ended,
Still, Julia, thou shalt prompt the sigh
Of tenderest love, and sorrow blended!
OF BISHOP LOWTH'S EPITAPH ON HIS DAUGHTER.
FAREWELL, Maria! who didst most excel
In genius, goodness, modesty, farewell!
Farewell, Maria, till that happy day
When I shall meet thee freed from mortal clay,
And say, while heavenly joy my bosom warms,
Return, return, to thy fond parent's arms!
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
GLORY and Ease my heart between,
To this, and now to that, I lean;
To each I give my hand by turns:
For Glory's palm my bosom burns;
But oh! again, thy poppies, Ease,
How much my aching eyes they please!
Say, shall I mount the hero's car,
And seek the glittering ranks of war;
Or, emulous of lettered fame,
With wits desire a radiant name?
Or, rather, in sweet indolence,
Neglect ambition's wild pretence,
Recline me on the enchantress' breast,
And sink, on beds of flowers, to rest?
Divided thus, I wear my life,
For ever with myself at strife;
By Ease, from Glory still withdrawn ;
By Glory, Ease inspired to scorn;
And ah! meanwhile, thus bent on each,
My faithless steps can neither reach !
Slothful no more, my days shall roll!
To Glory I devote my soul!
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