ODE TO SPRING.

Hope waits upon the flowery prime.

WALLER.

SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring!

Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crown'd;

From the green islands of eternal youth, (Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade)

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,

Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep

Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best belov'd! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untir'd feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To wave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth

That prompts their whisper'd sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,

And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;

And call those winds which thro' the whispering

boughs

With warm and pleasant breath

Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,

And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;

And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms.

O nymph approach! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air

Throws his young maiden beams,

And with chaste kisses wooes

The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade Protects thy modest blooms

From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short: The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;

For O, not all that Autumn's lap contains,

No summer's rudiest fruits,

Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart Each joy and new-born hope

With softest influence breathes.

VERSES ON MRS. ROWE.

How from the summit of the grove she fell,

And left it unharmonious

YOUNG.

SUCH
UCH were the notes our chaster SAPPHO sung,

And every Muse drop'd honey on her tongue.

Blest shade! how pure a breath of praise was thine,
Whose spotless life was faultless as thy line: --
In whom each worth and every grace conspire,
The christian's meekness and the poet's fire.
Learn'd without pride, a woman without art
The sweetest manners and the gentlest heart.
Sinooth like her verse her passions learn'd to move,
And her whole soul was harmony and love.
Virtue that breast without a conflict gain'd,
And easy, like a native monarch reign'd.
On earth still favour'd as by Heaven approv❜d,
The world applauded, and ALEXIS lov'd.

With love, with health, with fame, and friendship
And of a chearful heart the constant feast, [blest,
What more of bliss sincere could earth bestow ?
What purer heaven could angels taste below?
But bliss from earth's vain scenes too quickly flies;
The golden cord is broke-ALEXIS dies.
Now in the leafy shade, and widow'd grove,
Sad PHILOMELA mourns her absent love.
Now deep retir'd in FROME's enchanting vale,
She pours her tuneful sorrows on the gale;
Without one fond reserve the world disclaims,
And gives up all her soul to heavenly flames.
Yet in no useless gloom she wore her days;
She lov'd the work, and only shun'd the praise.
Her pious hand the poor, the mourner blest;
Her image liv'd in every kindred breast.

THYNN, CARTERET, BLACKMORE, ORRERY approv'd,
And PRIOR prais'd, and noble HERTFORD lov'd;
Seraphic KENN, and tuneful WATTS were thine,
And virtue's noblest champions fill'd the line.
Blest in thy friendships! in thy death too blest!
Receiv'd without a pang to endless rest.
Heaven call'd the saint matur'd by length of days,
And her pure spirit was exhal'd in praise.

Bright pattern of thy sex, be thou my Muse;