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Written at the Approach of Spring.

STERN Winter hence with all his train removes,
And cheerful skies, and limpid ftreams are seen ;
Thick-fprouting foliage decorates the groves;
Reviving herbage robes the fields in green.

Yet lovelier fcenes th' approaching months prepare;
When blooming Spring's full beauty is difplay'd,
The fmile of beauty ev'ry vale thall wear,
The voice of fong enliven ev'ry shade.

O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!

Oft for the profpects fprightly May fhould yield,
Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,
Or fnows untimely whiten'd o'er the field:
But fhould kind Spring her wonted bounty fhow'r,
The smile of beauty, and the voice of fong;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpow'r,
E'en vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.

I fhun the fcenes where madd'ning paffion raves,
Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold,
And unrelenting Avarice drives her flaves
O'er proftrate Virtue in purfuit of gold.

The graffy lane, the wood furrounded field,

The rude ftone-fence, with fragrant wall-flow'rsa gay, The clay-built cot, to me more pleafure yield

Than all the pomp imperial domes difplay :

And yet ev'n here, amid these fecret shades,
Thefe fimple fcenes of unreprov'd delight,
Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,

And Death's dread dart is ever in my fight.
While genial funs to genial fhow'rs fucceed,
(The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom,)
While herds and flocks range sportive o'er the mead,
Crop the sweet herb, and snuff the rich perfume;
O why alone to hapless man deny'd

To tafte the blifs inferior beings boast?

O why this fate, that fear and pain divide

His few short hours on earth's delightful coaft?
Oh ceafe! 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 by Heav'n indulg❜d below:
Why else the smiling infant-train so blest,
Or ill propenfion ripens into fin?
Or wild defire inflames the youthful breast,
Ere dear-bought knowledge end the peace

As to the bleating tenants of the field,


As to the fportive warblers on the trees, To them their joys fincere the feasons yield, And all their days and all their prospects please. Such mine, when firft from London's crowded fireets, Rov'd my young fteps 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 mare 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?
The long-lost joys of Eden to refìore?
Or raise our views to happier feats above,

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 shall be no more: Thefe grateful thare the gift of Nature's hand;

And in the varied fcenes that round them fhine, (Minute and beautiful, the awful and the grand,) Admire th' amazing workmanship divine.

Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamell'd, vale,
Shines not a pebble where the riv❜let strays,
Sports not an infect on the spicy gale,

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 mori. They feel the bliss that Hope and Faith supply; They pafs ferene th' appointed hours that bring The day that wafts them to the realms on high, The day that centres in eternal Spring.



THE Mufe! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires :
The Poet's birth, I afk not where,
His place, his name, they're not my care;
Nor Greece, nor Rome, delights me more,
Than Tagus bank,* or Thames's shore :†
From filver Avon's flowery fide,
Tho' Shakespeare's numbers fweetly glide,
As fweet from Morven's defert hills,
My ear the voice of Offian fills.

The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful ftrain admires :
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I fcorn not all that Dryden fings,
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the mafter lyre of Gray,
When pomp of mufic breaks away,
Nor lefs the found my notice draws,
For that 'tis heard in freedom's caufe.

The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires :
Where Wealth's bright fun propitious fhines,
No added luftre marks the lines;

* Alluding to Camoens, the Portuguese Epic Poet; of whose Lusiad we have a masterly translation by Mickle.

+ Alluding to Milton, Pope, &c.


Where Want extends her chilling fhades,
No pleafing flower of Fancy fades ;"
A fcribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise
From that poor Youth, whofe tales relate
Sad Juga's fears, and Bawdin's fate. I
The Mufe! whate'er the Muse infpires,
My foul the tuneful strain admires :
When Fame her wreath well-earn'd bestows,
My breast no latent envy knows;

My Langhorne's verfe I love to hear,
And Beattie's fong delights my ear;
And his whom Athen's Tragic Maid
Now leads through Scarning's lonely glade,
While he for British nymphs bids flow
Her notes of terror and of woe.

The Mufe! whate'er the Mufe infpires,
My foul the tuneful ftrain admires:
Or be the verfe, or blank or rhyme,
The theme, or humble or sublime;
If Paftoral's hand my journey leads,
Thro' harveft fields, or new-mown meads ;
If Epic's voice fonorous calls

To Eta's cliffs, or Salem's walls; T
Enough-the Mufe! the Mufe infpires!
My foul the tuneful train admires.

See Rowley's Poems; supposed to have been written

by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol.

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? Mr. Potter, the excellent translater of Eschylus and Euripides.

Glover's Leonidas.

Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered.

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