ON THE SPRING. LO! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, And wake the purple year! The untaught harmony of spring : Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, B Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think Still is the toiling hand of Care; And float amid the liquid noon : To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man : And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay In Fortune's varying colours drest : Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, We frolic while 't is May. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes. 'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed Her conscious tail her joy declared: The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, She saw; and purr'd applause. |