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O! where the rofy-bofom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flow'rs,

And wake the purple year!

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The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckow's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring :
While, whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear, blue sky

Their gatherd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade ;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade:
Beside fome water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall fit, and think-

(At

a bank

O'ercanopy'd with luscious woodbine.

Shakef. Midf. Night's Dream.

(At ease reclin'd in rustic ftate) How vain the ardour of the Crowd,

How low, how little are the Proud,

How indigent the Great !

Still is the toiling hand of Care :

The panting herds repose :
Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air

The busy murmur glows !
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honey'd spring,

And float amid the liquid noon
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some shew their gayly-gilded trim.
Quick-glancing to the sun t.

B 3

:

To

**“ Nare per æftatem liquidam

Virgil. Georg. lib. 4. f

sporting with quick glance Shew to the sun their way'd coats dropt with gold.

Milton's Paradise Lost, book 7.

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