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For I maun crush amang the foure
Thy Nender stem :
Thou bonie gem.
Wi' fpreckl'd breaft,
The purpling East.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form,
O' clod or stane,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies.
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
By love's fimplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore;
And whelm him o'er!
To Mis’ry's brink,
He, ruin'd, ank.
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy dooin.
TO SPRING. Tis past; the iron North has spent his rage ;
Stern Winter now resigns the length’ning day ; The stormy howlings of the winds assuage,
And warm o'er ether wefiern breezes play.
Oi genial heat and cheerful light the fource,
From southern climes, beneath another sky, The fun, returning, wheels his golden course;
Before bis beams all noxious vapours fly.
Far to the north grim Winter draws his train
To his own clime, to Zenbla’s frozen shore; Where thron’d on ice, he holds eternal reign;
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempelis
Loos'd from the bands of frost, the verdant ground
Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around,
Smiling, the cheerful face of Spring is seen. Behold! the trees new-deck their wither'd boughs;
Their ample leaves, the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty ash diłclose;
The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lity of the vale, of flowers the queen,
Puts on the robe the neither few'd nor fpun; The birds on ground, or on the branches green,
Hop to and fro and glitter in the sun. Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers,
From her low neft the tufted lark upsprings ; And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers;
Still high she mounts, Itill loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms,
That till the air with fragrance all around: The linnet fits, and tricks his glossy plumes,
While o'er the wild, his broken notes resound.
While the sun journeys down the western sky,
Along the greensward, quark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blith some shepherd'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 fiow'ry roac', Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove,
And follow Nature up to Nature's Gon. Thus Zoroaster studied Nature's laws;
Thus Socrates, the wisest of mankind; Thus heaven-taught Plato trac'd th' Almighty cauft,
And left the wond'ring multitude behind. Thus Ally gather' academic bays ;
Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll, Taught them to fing the great CREATOR's praisc,
And bear their poet's name from pole to pole. Thus have I wal along the dewy lawn;
My frequent fuot the blooming wild hath worn; Before the lark, l’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 Neep my nighls, and quiet bless'd my days ;
I fear®d no loss, my mind was all my store ; No anxious withes e'er difturb'd
my Heaven gave content and health-I ask'd no mort Now Spring returns;--but not to me returns
The vernal joy, my better years have knową;
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' inconsiant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was, Beneath fome blasted tree I lie reclin'd,
And count the filent moments as they pass : The winged moments, whose unfaying speed
No art can stop, or in their course arreft ; 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 flowly creep below,
Which mortals visit and return no more. Farewel, ve blooming felds ! ye cheerful plains !
Enough for me the church-yard's lonely mound, Where Melancholy with ftill 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 busy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom where my Daphnis ties. There let me seep 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.