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For I maun crush amang the ftoure
To fpare thee now is paft my pow'r,
Alas! it's no thy neehor sweet,
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 guilelefs truft,
Till the, like thee, all foil'd, is laid
Such is the fate of fimple Bard,
Of prudent lore;
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
Such fate to suff'ring Worth is giv'n,
To Mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry ftay but Heav'n,
E'en thou who mourn'ft the Daisy's fate,
Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
"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 source,
Far to the north grim Winter draws his train
Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempefis
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, ftill loud and sweet she fings.
On the green furze, cloth'd o'er with golden blooms, That fill the air with fragrance all around:
The linnet fits, and tricks his gloffy plumes,
While o'er the wild, his broken notes refound.
While the fun journeys down the western sky,
Along the greenfward, mark'd with Roman mound, Beneath the blithsome 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 heaven-taught Plato trac'd th' Almighty cauft,
Thus gentle Thomson, as the Seasons roll,
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, I 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 bless'd my days; I fear'd no lofs, my mind was all my ftore; No anxious withes e'er difturb'd my eafe;
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 pass: The winged moments, whofe unftaying speed
No art can flop, or in their course arreft; Whofe flight fhall fhortly count me with the dead, And lay me down in peace with them that reft. Oft morning-dreams prefage 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 fhriek of woe;
I fee the muddy wave, the dreary shore,
And the rank grafs waves o'er the cheerless ground.
There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When fleep fits dewy on the labourer's eyes,
The world and all its bufy follies leave,
And talk with Wisdom 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.