While Spring shall pour his Show'rs, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing Tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport,
Beneath thy lingʼring Light:

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with Leaves,
Or Winter, yelling thro' the troublous Air,
Affrights thy shrinking Train,

And rudely rends thy Robes.

So long regardful of thy quiet Rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,
Thy gentlest Influence own,

And love thy fav'rite Name!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,
DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclin'd,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,

She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gaz'd; but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:

Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Thro' richest purple to the view

Betray'd a golden gleam.

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 despise ?
What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil'd)
The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every wat'ry God,
Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd:
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A Fav'rite 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 wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Not all, that glisters, gold.

THOMAS GRAY.

JESUS, Lord, in Pity hear us,

O Return,

While we mourn,

By thy Spirit chear us.

Swallow'd up in Sin and Sadness

O relieve,

Us that grieve

Turn our Grief to Gladness.

Send the Comforter to raise us

Let us see

God in Thee

Merciful and gracious.

Him the Purchase of thy Passion
O impart,

Cleanse our Heart

By his Inspiration.

By the Earnest of thy Spirit
Let us know
Heaven below,

Heaven above inherit.

Perfect when we walk before thee

Fill'd with Love,

Then remove

To our Thrones of Glory.

CHARLES WESLEY.

SONG

WHY we love, and why we hate,
Is not granted us to know;
Random chance, or wilful fate,
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

If on me Zelinda frown,

Madness 'tis in me to grieve: Since her will is not her own, Why should I uneasy live?

If I for Zelinda dy,

Deaf to poor Mizella's cries, Ask me not the reason why:

Seek the riddle in the skies.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

ADVERTISEMENT

This poem being writ in the Manner of Spenser, the obsolete Words, and a Simplicity of Diction in some of the Lines, which borders on the Ludicrous, were necessary to make the Imitation more perfect. And the stile of that admirable Poet, as well as the Measure in which he wrote, are as it were appropriated by Custom to all Allegorical Poems writ in our Language; just as in French the stile of Marot who lived under Francis I. has been used in Tales, and familiar Epistles, by the politest writers of the Age of Louis XIV.

CANTO I

The Castle hight of Indolence,
And its false Luxury;

Where for a little Time, alas !
We liv'd right jollily.

I

O MORTAL Man, who livest here by Toil, Do not complain of this thy hard Estate; That like an Emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad Sentence of an ancient Date : And, certes, there is for it Reason great ; For, though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy Star, and early drudge and late, Withouten That would come an heavier Bale, Loose Life, unruly Passions, and Diseases pale.

II

In lowly Dale, fast by a River's Side,

With woody Hill o'er Hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting Wizard did abide,

Than whom a Fiend more fell is no where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely Spot of Ground;

And there a Season atween June and May,

Half prankt with Spring, with Summer half imbrown'd, A listless Climate made, where, Sooth to say,

No living Wight could work, ne cared even for Play.

III

Was nought around but Images of Rest:

Sleep-soothing Groves, and quiet Lawns between ; And flowery Beds that slumbrous Influence kest, From Poppies breath'd; and Beds of pleasant Green, Where never yet was creeping Creature seen. Meantime unnumber'd glittering Streamlets play'd,, And hurled every-where their Waters sheen ; That, as they bicker'd through the sunny Glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling Murmur made.

IV

Join'd to the Prattle of the purling Rills,
Were heard the lowing Herds along the Vale,
And Flocks loud-bleating from the distant Hills,
And vacant Shepherds piping in the Dale;
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or Stock-Doves plain amid the Forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing Gale;
And still a Coil the Grashopper did keep :
Yet all these Sounds yblent inclined all to Sleep.

V

Full in the Passage of the Vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn Forest stood;

Where nought but shadowy Forms were seen to move,
As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming Mood.

And up the Hills, on either Side, a Wood

Of blackening Pines, ay waving to and fro,

Sent forth a sleepy Horror through the Blood;

And where this Valley winded out, below,

The murmuring Main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.

VI

A pleasing Land of Drowsy-hed it was:

Of Dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay Castles in the Clouds that pass,

For ever flushing round a Summer-Sky: