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While the fun journeys down the western sky,

Along the greensward, quark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blithsome thepherd's watchful eye,

The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. Now is the time for those who wisdom love,

Who love to walk in Virtue's flow'ry roar', Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove,

And follow Nature up to Nature's God. Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;

Thus Socrates, the wiseft of mankind; Thus heaven-taught Plato trac'd th' Almighty cauft,

And left the wond'ring multitude behind. Thus Albly gather academic bays ;

Thus gentie Thomson, as the Seafons roll, Taught them to sing the great Creator's praisc,

And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn;

My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark, I've sung the beauteous dawn,

And gather'd health from all the gales of morn ; And, e'en, when Winter chill'd the aged year,

I wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain ; Though frosty Bureas warn'd me to forbear,

Boreas, with all his tempefts, warn'd in vain. Then sleep my nights, and quiet bless’d my days;

I fear'd no loss, my mind was all iny store ; No auxious withes e'er disturb'd my ease ;

Heaven gave content and health--I alk'd no more. Now Spring returns;—but not to me returns

The vernal joy, my better years have known;

Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,

And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and shiv'ring in th' inconfiant wind,

Meagre and pale, the ghoft of what I was, Beneath fome blasted tree I lie reclin'd,

And count the filent moments as they pass : The winged moments, whose unsaying speed

No art can stop, or in their course arrest; si Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,

And lay me down in peace with them that refi. Oft morning-dreams presage approaching fate;

And morning-dreams, as poets tell, are true : Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,

And bid the realms of light and life adieu. . I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of woe;

I see the muddy wave, the dreary shore, The Nuggish streams that fowly creep below,

Which mortals visit and return no more. Farewel, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains !

Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with still filence reigns,

And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. There let me wander at the shut of eve,

When Neep fits dewy on the labourer's eyes, The world and all its bufy follies leave,

And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis ties. There let me feep forgotten in the clay,

When Death thall shut these weary, aching eyes, Rest in the hopes of an eternal day,

Till the last long night's gone, and the last moin arife.

SCOTT,

ELEGY,
Written at the Approach of Spring.
STERN Winter hence with all his train removes,

And cheerful skies, and limpid ftreanis are seen ;
Thick-sprouting foliage decorates the groves;

Reviving herbage robes the fields in green. Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching taonths prepare ;

When blooming Spring's full beauty is display'd, The smile of beauty ev'ry vale' thall wear,

The voice of long enliven ev'ry fade.' O Fancy, paiit not coming days too fair!

Oft for the prospects sprightly May thould yield,
Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,

Or snows untimely whiten'd o'er the field :
But should kind Spring her wonted bounty show'r,

The smile of beauty, and the voice of song;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpow'r,

E'en vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.
I fhun the scenes where madd’ning passion raves,

Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold,
And unrelenting A varice drives her Naves

O’er proftrate Virtue in pursuit of gold. The graffy.lane, the wood surrounded field,

The rude stone-fence, with fragrant wall-flow'ro gay, The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield

Than all the pomp imperial doias display:

And yet evi'n here, amid these secret shades,

These fimple fcenes of úpreprov'd delight, Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,,1:39)

And Death's dread dart is ever in my light. ' " . While genial funs to genial show'rs fucceed,

(The air all mildness, and the earth'all bloom,) While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead,

Crop the sweet herb, and fnuff the rich perfunie;
O wliy alone to hapless 'man deny'd

To taste the blifs inferior beings boast ?
O why this fate, that fear and pain divide

His few short hours on earth's delightful coaft?
Oh cease! no more of Providence complain!

'Tis sense of guilt that wakes the mind to woe; Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain, .'

And palls each joy by Heav'n indulg'd below:
Why else the smiling infant-train so blest,

Or ill propension ripens into fin ?
Or wild defire infames the youthful breaft,'

Ere dear-bought knowledge end the peace within ? As to the bleating tenants of the field,

As to the sportive warblers on the trees, To them their joys-fineere the seasons yield,

And all their days and all their prospects please. Such mine, when first from London's crowded streets,

Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills, O’er new-blown meads, that breath'd a thousand sweets,

By shady coverts, and by crystal rilis. Q happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled!

What there I now, that can your loss repay,

While o'er my mind these glooms of thought are spread,

And veil the light of life's meridian ray? Is there no pow'r this darkness to remove ?

The long-lof joys of Eden to retiore? Or raise our views to happier seats above,

Where fear, and pain, and death, shall be no more? Yes, those there are, who know a SAVIOUR's love

The long-loft joys of Eden can restore, And raise their views to happier feats above,

Where fear, and pain, and death fball be no more : These grateful thare the gift of Nature's hand;

And in the varied scenes that round them thine, (Minute and beautiful, the awful and the grand,)

Admire th' amazing workmanship divine. . Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamelid, vale,

Shines not a pebble where the riv'let ftrays, Sports not an insea on the spicy gale,

But claims their wonder and excites their praise. For them e'en vernal Nature looks more gay,

For them more lively hues the fields adorn; To them more fair the fairest finile of day,

To them more sweet the sweetesi breath of morna They feel the bliss that Hope and Faith supply ;

They pass serene th' appointed hours that bring The day that wasts them to the realms on high, * The day that centres in eternal Spring.

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