For I maun crush amang the ftoure To fpare thee now is paft my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neehor fweet, When upward-fpringing, blythe, to greet Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Scarce rear'd above the parent earth The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, O' clod or stane, Adorns the hiftie ftibble field, There, in thy fcanty mantle clad, In humble guife; But now the fhare up-tears thy bed, Such is the fate of artless Maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural fhade! By love's fimplicity betray'd, And guileless truft, Till the, like thee, all foil'd, is laid Such is the fate of fimple Bard, On life's rough ocean, luckless starr'd! Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, Such fate to fuff'ring Worth is giv'n, To Mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, E'en thou who mourn'ft the Daisy's fate, Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, BRUCE. ELEGY, TO SPRING. 'TIS paft; the iron North has spent his rage ; Stern Winter now refigns the length'ning day; The ftormy howlings of the winds affuage, Of genial heat and cheerful light the fource, Far to the north grim Winter draws his train Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempefis roar. Loos'd from the bands of froft, the verdant ground Behold! the trees new-deck their wither'd boughs; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lity of the vale, of flowers the queen, Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, And, cheerful finging, up the air she steers; Still high fhe mounts, itill loud and sweet she fings. On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms, The linnet fits, and tricks his gloffy plumes, While the fun journeys down the western sky, Along the greenfward, mark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blithfome thepherd's watchful eye, The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Thus Socrates, the wifeft of mankind; Thus gentle Thomfon, as the Seafons roll, Taught them to fing the great CREATOR's praife, 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 fung the beauteous dawn, And gather'd health from all the gales of morn; And, e'en, when Winter chill'd the aged year, 1 wander'd lonely o'er the hoary plain; Though frofty Boreas warn'd me to forbear, Boreas, with all his tempefts, warn'd in vain. Then fleep my nights, and quiet blefs'd my days; I fear'd no lofs, my mind was all my ftore; No anxious withes e'er difturb'd my ease ; Heaven gave content and health-I afk'd no more. Now Spring returns;-but not to me returns The vernal joy, my better years have known; Dim in my breaft life's dying taper burns, And all the joys of life with health are flown. Starting and fhiv'ring in th' inconfiant wind, Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath fome blafted tree I lie reclin'd, And count the filent moments as they pafs: No art can flop, or in their course arreft; Farewel, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains! Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with ftill filence reigns, And the rank grafs waves o'er the cheerlefs ground. There let me wander at the fhut of eve, When fleep fits dewy on the labourer's eyes, The world and all its bufy follies leave, And talk with Wifdom where my Daphnis lies. There let me fleep forgotten in the clay, When Death fhall fhut these weary, aching eyes, Reft in the hopes of an eternal day, Tin the last long night's gone, and the last moin arife. |