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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 seen ; Thick-sprouting foliage decorates the groves;

Reviving herbage robes the fields in green. Yet lovelier scenes th' approaching inonths prepare ;

When blooming Spring's full beauty is display'd, The smile of beauty ev'ry vale thall wear,

The voice of fong enliven ev'ry made. O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!

Oft for the prospects sprightly May tould yield, Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,

Or snows untimely whiten'd o'er the field :
But should kind Spring her wonted bounty show'r,

The smile of beauty, and the voice of song;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpoto's,

E’en vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.
I fhun the scenes' where madd’ning pasion raves,

Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold ,
And unrelenting A varice drives her Naves

O’er proftrate Virtue in pursuit of gold. The graffy.lane, the wood furrounded field,

The rude stone-fence, with fragrant wall-flow'ro gay, The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield

Than all the pomp imperial doma display:

And yet ev'n here, amid these secret shades,

These simple 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 show'rs succeed,

(The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom,) While herds and focks range sportive o'er the mead,

Crop the sweet herb, and snuff the rich perfunie ; O wly alone to hapless man deny'd

To taste the bliss inferior beings boast ? O why this fate, that fear and pain divide

His few short hours on earth's delightful coaft? Ob cease! no more of Providence complain !

'Tis sense 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 propension ripens into fin ?
Or wild desire inflames the youthful breaft,

Ere dear-bought knowledge end the peace within?
As to the bleating tenants of the field,

As to the sportive warblers on the trees, To them their jorys fincere the seasons yield,

And all their days and all their prospects please. Such mine, when firit from London's crowded streets,

Rov'd my young steps to Surry's wood-crown'd bills, O'er new-blown meads, that breath'd a thousand sweets,

By Mady coverts, and by crystal rills. Q happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled!

V hat fuere I now, that can your loss repay,


While o'er my mind these glooms of thought are fpread,

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 restore ? Or raise our views to happier seats above,

Where fear, and pain, and death, fall be no more? Yes, those 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 : These grateful thare the gift of Nature's hand;

And in the varied scenes that round them thine, (Minute and beautiful, the awful and the grand,)

Admire th' amazing workmanship divine. Blows not a flow'ret in th' enamelle, vale,

Shines not a pebble where the riv'let Atrays, Sports not an insed on the spicy gale,

But claims their wonder and excites their praise. For them e'en vernal Nature looks more gay,

For them more lively hues the fields adorn ; To them more fair the faireft sinile of day,

To them more sweet the sweetefi breath of morda They feel the bliss that Hope and Faith supply ;

They pass ferene th' appointed hours that bring The day that wasts them to the realms on high,

The day that centres in eternal Spring.

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THE Muse! whate'er the Mufe inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
The Poet's birth, I ask 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:t
From filver Avon's flowery fide,
Tho' Shakespeare's numbers sweetly glide, i
As sweet from Morven's defert hills,
My ear the voice of Oman fills.
The Muse! whate'er the Mufe inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Nor bigot zeal, nor party rage
Prevail, to make me blame the page;
I scorn not all that Dryden fings,
Because he flatters courts and kings;
And from the master lyre of Gray,

of music breaks away, Nor less the found my notice draws, For that 'tis heard in freedom's caufe.

The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Where Wealth's bright sun propitious shines,
No added lustre marks the lines;

* Alluding to Camoens, the Portuguese Epic Poet; of whose Lusiad we have a masterly translation by Mickle, + Aluding to Milton, Pope, &c.


Where Want extends het chilling shades,
No pleasing Aower of Fancy fades;
A scribbling peer's applauded lays
Might claim, but claim in vain, my praise
From that poor Youth, whose tales relate
Sad Juga's fears, and Bawdin's fate. I
The Muse! whate'er the Muse inspires,
My soul 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 Muse! whate'er the Muse infpires,
My soul the tuneful strain admires :
Or be the verse, or blank or rhyme,
The theme, or humble or sublime ;
If Pastoral's hand my journey leads,
Thro' harvest fields, or new-mown meads;
If Epic's voice fonorous calís
To (Eta's cliffs,|| or Salem's walls; T
Enough the Muse! the Muse inspires !
My soul the tuneful strain admires,

See Rowley's Poems; supposed to have been written by Chatterton, an unhappy youth born at Bristol.

& Mr. Porter, the excellent translator of Eschylus and Euripides. Il Glover's Leonidas.

Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered,

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