Ode on the Spring

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, who was

drowned in a vase of gold fishes

Ode on a distant profpect of Eton-College

Ode to Adversity

The Progrefs of Poefy; a Pindaric Ode

The Bard; a Pindaric Ode

The Fatal Sisters, from the Norse tongue

The descent of Odin, from the Norse tongue

The Triumphs of Owen. A fragment. From the

Welch

Elegy written in a Country Church-yard

Page

I

6

II

13

21

30

35

40

42

The Epitaph

Ode to Mufic

47

48

POEM S.

O DE

ON THE

SPRING.

I.

LO! where the rofy-bofom'd hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat
Refponfive to the cuckow's note,
The untaught harmony of Spring:
While, whispering pleasures as they fly,
Cool Zephyrs, through the clear blue sky,
Their gather'd, fragrance fling.

II.

Where-e'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,

Where-e'er the rude and mofs-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade;

*

Befide fome water's rushy brink,

With me the Mufe fhall fit, and think,

a bank O'er-canopied with lufcious woodbine

Shakespeare's Midsummer night's Dream.

A

(At cafe reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardor of the croud,

How low, how indigent, the proud,
How little are the great.

III.

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repofe ;

Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The bufy murmur glows!

The infect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied Spring,
And float amid the liquid noon;
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim,
Quick-glancing to the sun. †

IV.

To Contemplation's sober eye ‡

Such is the race of man;

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the bufy and the gay

But Autter through life's little day,

* Nare per aeftatem liquidam

Virg. Geor. lib.

4.

fporting with quick glance,

Shew to the fun their wav'd coats drop'd with gold.
Milton's Paradife Loft, book 7.

While infects from the threshold preach, &c.

M. Green in the Grotto.

DodЛley's Mifcellanics, vol. 5. p. 161.

In Fortune's varying colours dreft;
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

V.

Methinks I hear, in accent low,
The sportive kind reply ;

Poor Moralift! and what art thou!

A folitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display;
On hafty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy fun is fet, thy Spring is gone-
We frolick, while 'tis May.

A 2