Hung amiable, Hesperian fables true,

If true, here only, and of delicious taste:
Betwixt them lawns, or level downs, and flocks
Grazing the tender herb, were interposed,

Or palmy hillock; or the flowery lap

Of some irriguous valley spread her store,
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose:
Another side, umbrageous grots and caves
Of cool recess, o'er which the mantling vine
Lays forth her purple grape, and gently creeps
Luxuriant; meanwhile murmuring waters fall
Down the slope hills, disperst, or, in a lake
That to the fringed bank with myrtle crowned
Her crystal mirror holds, unite their streams.
The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune
The trembling leaves, while universal Pan
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance
Led on th' eternal Spring.

To Mary.

AUTUMN OF 1793.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

MILTON.

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;—

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

My Mary!

Yet me they charm; whate'er the theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently prest, press gently mine,

My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now, at every step, thou movest
Upheld by two, yet still thou lovest,

My Mary!

And still to love, though prest with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

COWPER

On the Death of his Mistress.

SITH gone is my delight and only pleasure,

The last of all my hopes, the cheerful sun

That cleared my life's dark sphere, nature's sweet treasure, More dear to me than all beneath the moon,

What resteth now, but that upon this mountain
I weep, till heaven transform me to a fountain?

Fresh, fair, delicious, crystal, pearly fountain,
On whose smooth face to look she oft took pleasure,
Tell me (so may thy streams long cheer this mountain,
So serpent ne'er thee stain, nor scorch thee sun,
So may with watery beams thee kiss the moon,)
Dost thou not mourn to want so fair a treasure?

While she here gazed on thee, rich Tagus' treasure
Thou needest not envy, nor yet the fountain

In which the hunter saw that naked moon,

Absence hath robbed thee of thy wealth and pleasure, And I remain like marigold, of sun

Deprived, that dies by shadow of some mountain.

Nymphs of the forests, nymphs who on this mountain
Are wont to dance, showing your beauty's treasure
To goat-feet Sylvans and the wondering sun,
When as you gather flowers about this fountain,
Bid her farewell, who placed here her pleasure,
And sing her praises to the stars and moon.

Among the lesser lights as is the moon,

Blushing through muffling clouds on Latmos' mountain,
Or when she views her silver locks for pleasure,
In Thetis' streams, proud of so gay a treasure,
Such was my fair when she sat by this fountain,
With other nymphs to shun the amorous sun.

As is our earth in absence of the sun,
Or when of sun deprived is the moon,

As is without a verdant shade a fountain,

Or wanting grass, a mead, a vale, a mountain;
Such is my state, bereft of my dear treasure,
To know whose only worth was all my pleasure.

Ne'er think of pleasure, heart-eyes, shun the sun,
Tears be your treasure, which the wandering moon
Shall see you shed by mountain, vale and fountain.

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEX.

Ode on a distant prospect of Eton College.

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among,
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,

Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,