SELECT POEMS.

ODES.

ON THE SPRING.

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair VENUS' train, appear,
Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
esponsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs, through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,*

Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think

a bank

O'er-canopied with luscious woodbine.

Shaksp. Mids. Night's Dream.

(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose :

Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon :*
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.†

To Contemplation's sober eye+
Such is the race of Man :

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay

But flutter through Life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours dress'd : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

*Nare per æstatem liquidam—.

Virgil Georg. lib. 4.

+-sporting with quick glance,

Show to the sun their wav'd coats dropt with gold.
Milton's Paradise Lost, book 7.

While insects from the threshold preach, &e.

M. Green, in the Grotto

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
Poor Moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone-
We frolic while 'tis May.

ON

THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUS OF GOLD FISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,

Her coat, that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw; and purr'd applause.

Still had she gaz'd; but midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,

The Genii of the stream:

Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through riches purple to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw,

With many an ardent wish,

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize, What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil❜d)
The slippery verge her feet beguil❜d,
She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god,
Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd:
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A Fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceiv'd,
Know, one false step is ne'er retriev❜d,
And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.