BUT when mild Morn, in saffron stole,

First issues from her eastern goal,

Let not my due feet fail to climb
Some breezy summit's brow sublime,
Whence nature's universal face
Illumin'd smiles with new-born grace;.
The misty streams that wind below,
With silver-sparkling lustre glow;
The groves and castled cliffs appear
Invested all in radiance clear;
O! every village charm beneath!

The smoke that mounts in azure wreath !

O beauteous rural interchange!
The simple spire, and elmy grange!
Content, indulging blissful hours,
Whistles o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
And cattle, rouz'd to pasture new,
Shake jocund from their sides the dew.
'Tis thou alone, O Summer mild,
Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild :
Whene'er I view thy genial scenes,
Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens,
What fires within my bosom wake,
How glows my mind the reed to take!
What charms like thine the muse can call,
With whom 'tis youth and laughter all;
With whom each field's a paradise,
And all the globe a bow'r of bliss!
With thee conversing all the day,
I meditate my lightsome lay.
These pedant cloisters let me leave,
To breathe my votive song at eve
In valleys where mild whispers use,
Of shade and stream to court the muse,
While wand'ring o'er the brook's dim verge,
I hear the stock dove's dying dirge.

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*

*

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE, AT ANSLEY HALL, IN WARWICKSHIRE.

BENEATH this stony roof reclin'd,

I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits lone and still
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;

From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies:
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Pourtray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed:
Then as my taper waxes dim,

Chaunt, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn;
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm Oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

ODE TO THE FIRST OF APRIL.

WITH dalliance rude young Zephyr wooes
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boisterous boy the fair denies,
Or with a scornful smile complies.
Mindful of disaster past,

And shrinking at the northern blast,
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning hoar, and evening chill;