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Written at the Approach of Spring.

Stern Winter hence with all his train removes,

And cheerful skies, and limpid streams are feen; Thick-fproutiog foliage decorates the groves;

Reviving herbage robes the sields in preen. Yet lovelier fcenes th' approaching months prepare

When blooming Spring's full beauty is difplay Vi, The fmile of beauty ev'ry vale mall wear,

The voice of long enliven ev'ry lhade.

0 Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!

Oft for the profpects sprightly May mould yield. Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,

Or fnows untimely whiten'd o'er the sield: But mould kind Spring her wonted bounty lhow'r,

The fmile of beauty, and the voice of fong; If gloomy thought the human mind o*erpo*'r,

E'en vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along,

1 fliun the fcenes where madd'ning passion raves,
Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold ,

And unrelenting Avarice drives her flave*
O'er proftrate Virtue in purfuit of gold.

The grassy. lane, the wood furrounded sield,

The rude stone-fence, with fragrant wall-flow'r' g;

Ths clay-built cot, to me more pleafure yield
Than all the pomp imperial dome* display:

And yet ev'n here, amid thefe fecret shades,

Thefe simple fcenes of unreprov'd delight, Assliction's iron hand my hreast invades,

And Death's dread dart is ever in my sight.' While genial funs to genial ihov'rs fucceed,

(The air alt mildnefs, and the earth all hloom,) "While herds and Mocks range fportive o'er the mead,

Crop the sweet herh, and fnuss the rich perftmic;

O why alone to haplefs man deny'd
To taste the hlifs inferior heings hoast?

0 why thi, fate, that fear and pain divide

His few sbort hours on earth's delightful coast?

Oh cease! no more of Providence complain!

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

And palls each joy hy Heav'n indulg'd helow:

Why elfe the fmiling infant-train so hlest,
Or ill propenlion ripens into fm?

r Or wild desire inflames the youthful hreast,

Ere dear-hought knowledge end the peace within?

As to the hleating tenants of the 6eld,
As to the fportive warhlers on the trees,

To them their joys- sincere the feafons yield,
And all their days and all their profpects pleafe.

Such mine,-when sirst from London's crowded ftreets,
Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd hills,

O'er new-hlown meads, that hreath'd a thoufand fweets,. By fhady coverts, and hy crystal rills.

0 happy hours, heyond recov'ry fled!

What marc X now, that can your lofs repay,

While o'er my mind thefe glooms of thought are fpread, And veil the light of life's meridian ray?

Is there no powV this darknefs to remove? , The long-lost joys ot Eden to restore? Or raife our views to happier feats above,

Where fear, and pain, and death, fhall be no more? Yes, thofe there are, who know a Saviour's love

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

Where fear, and pain, and death lhall be no more:

Thefe grateful fliare the gift of Nature's hand;

And in the varied fcenes that round them shine, (Minute and beautiful, the aw ful and, the grand,)

Admire th' amazing workmanlhip divine. Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamellM .vale,

Shines not a pebble where the riv'let strays, Sports not an infect on the fpicy gale.

But claims their wonder and excites their praife.

For them e'en vernal Nature looks more gay,
For them more lively hues the sields adorn 3

To them more fair the fairest fmile of day,

To them mgre fweet the fweetest breath of mornw

They feel the blifs that Hope and Faith fupply;

They pafs ferene th' appointed hours that brinj The day that wafts them to the realms on high.

The day that centres in cterna^bprimj.



The Muse! whate'er the Mufe inspires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires:
The Poet's hirth, I aflc not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece, nor Rome, delights me more,
Than TagU3 hank,* or Thames's shore :f
From silver Avon's flowery side,
Tho' Shakefpeare's numhers fweetly glide,
As fweet from Morten's defert hills,
My ear the voice of Oslian sills.

The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires:
Nor higot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me hlame the page;
I fcorn not all that Dryden sings,
Becaufe he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray,
When pomp of music hreaks away,
Nor lefs the found my notice draws,
For that 'tit heard in freedom's cause.

The Mufe'. whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires:
Where Wealth's hright fun propitious mines,
No added lustre marks the lines;

* Alluding to Camoens, the Portuguese Epic Poet; « ho>e Lusiad we have a masterly translation hy MicUc. + Alluding to Milton, Pope, fcc, P

Where Want extends bet chillmg lhades,
No pleasing flower of Fancy fades;
A fcribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praife
From that poor Youth, whofe tales relate
Sad Juga's fears, and Bawdin's fatej
The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires:
When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;
My Langhorne's terfe I love to hear,
And Beattie's fong delights my ear j
And his§ whom Athen's Tragic Maid
Now leads through Seaming'* lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe.

The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe inspires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires:
Or be the verfe, or blank or rhyme,
The theme, or humble or fublime;
If Pastoral's hand my journey leads,
Thro' harvest sields, or new-mown meads;
If Epic's voice fonorous calls
To Œta's cliffs,|| or Salem's walls ;^f
Enough—the Mufe! the Mufe infpires!
My foul th: tuneful strain admires.

j See Rowley's Poems; supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy ynuth born at Bristol. • $ Mr. Putter, the excellent translator el Ehtihylus and Euripisles.

;i Glover's Leonidas.

1 Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered,

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