SCOTT. ELEGY, Written at the Approach of Spring. STERN Winter hence with all his train removes, And cheerful skies, and limpid streams are seen ; Yet lovelier fcenes th' approaching months prepare ; O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair! Oft for the profpects fprightly May should yield, The graffy lane, the wood furrounded field, The rude ftone-fence, with fragrant wall-flow'rea gay, The clay-built cot, to me more pleafure yield Than all the pomp imperial domncs difplay: And yet ev'n here, amid thefe fecret fhades, And Death's dread dart is ever in my fight. To tafte the blifs inferior beings boaft? O why this fate, that fear and pain divide And palls each joy by Heav'n indulg’d below : Why elfe the smiling infant-train so bleft, Ere dear-bought knowledge end the peace within ? As to the bleating tenants of the field, As to the fportive warblers on the trees, To them their joys fincere the feafons yield, And all their days and all their profpects please. Such mine, when firft 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 fhady coverts, and by cryftal rills. happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled ! What here I now, that can your lofs 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? Where fear, and pain, and death, shall be no more? Yes, thofe there are, who know a SAVIOUR's love The long-loft joys of Eden can restore, And raise their views to happier seats above, Where fear, and pain, and death fhall be no more: Thefe grateful fhare the gift of Nature's hand; And in the varied fcenes that round them shine, (Minute and beautiful, the awful and the grand,) Admire th' amazing workmanship divine. Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamell'd, vale, But claims their wonder and excites their praife. For them e'en vernal Nature looks more gay, For them more lively hues the fields adorn; To them more fair the faireft fimile of day, To them more sweet the sweetest breath of morn They feel the blifs that Hope and Faith supply; They pass ferene th' appointed hours that bring The day that wafts them to the realms on high, The day that centres in eternal Spring. THE MUSE; OR, POETICAL ENTHUSIASM. THE Mufe! whate'er the Muse inspires, The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe inspires, The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe inspires, Where Wealth's bright fun propitious shines, Alluding to Camoens, the Portuguese Epic Poet; of whose Lusiad we have a masterly translation by Mickle, + Alluding to Milton, Pope, &c. Р Where Want extends her chilling fhades, The Mufe! whate'er the Muse infpires, My Langhorne's verfe I love to hear, The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires, To Eta's cliffs, or Salem's walls; See Rowley's Poems; supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol. • Mr. Potter, the excellent translator of Eschylus and Euripides. Glover's Leonidas. Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered, |