"Unblest the day, and luckless was the hour "Which doom'd me to a Presbyterian's power:

"Fated to serve the Puritanic race,

"Whose slender meal is shorter than their grace; "Whose moping sons no jovial orgies keep;

"Where evening brings no summons--but to sleep; "No Carnival is even Christmas here,

"And one long Lent involves the meagre year.
"Bear me, ye pow'rs! to some more genial scene,
"Where on soft cushions lolls the gouty Dean,
“Or rosy Prebend, with cherubic face,

“With double chin, and paunch of portly grace,
"Who Jull'd in downy slumbers shall agree
"To own no inspiration but from me.

"Or to some spacious mansion, Gothic, old,
"Where Comus' sprightly train their vigils hold;
"There oft exhausted, and replenish'd oft,
"Oh! let me still supply th' eternal draught;
"Till care within the deep abyss be drown'd,
"And thought grows giddy at the vast profound."

More had the goblet spoke, but lo! appears
An ancient Sibyl furrow'd o'er with years.
Her aspect sour, and stern ungracious look
With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck :

Chill'd at her touch its mouth it slowly clos'd,
And in long silence all its griefs repos'd:
Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground,

And the air vibrates with the silver sound.

ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF THE

SPRING 1771.

Estatem increpitans seram, zephyrosque morantes.

VIRGLE

In vain the sprightly sun renews his course,
Climbs up th' ascending signs and leads the day,
While long embattled clouds repel his force,

And lazy vapours choak the golden ray.

In vain the spring proclaims the new born year; No flowers beneath her lingering footsteps spring,

No rosy garland binds her flowing hair,

And in her train no feather'd warblers sing.

Her opening breast is stain'd with frequent showers, Her streaming tresses bath'd in chilling dews,

And sad before her move the pensive hours,

Whose flagging wings no breathing sweets diffuse,

Like some lone pilgrim, clad in mournful weed,
Whose wounded bosom drinks her falling tears,
On whose pale cheek relentless sorrows feed,
Whose dreary way no sprightly carol cheers.

Not thus she breath'd on Arno's purple shore,
And call'd the Tuscan Muses to her bowers;
Not this the robe in Enna's vale she wore,
When Ceres' daughter fill'd her lap with flowers.

Clouds behind clouds in long succession rise,
And heavy snows oppress the springing green;
The dazzling waste fatigues the aching eyes,
And fancy droops beneath th' unvaried scene.

Indulgent nature, loose this frozen zone;
Thro' opening skies let genial sun-beams play;
Dissolving snows shall their glad impulse own,
And melt upon the bosom of the May.

3

VERSES

WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE.

Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus imminente Luna.

HORAT

Now the moon-beam's trembling lustre

Silvers o'er the dewy green,

And in soft and shadowy colours

Sweetly paints the chequer'd scene.

Here between the opening branches
Streams a flood of soften'd light,
There the thick and twisted foliage
Spreads the browner gloom of night.

This is sure the haunt of fairies,

In yon cool alcove they play ;