On the Spring. Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours, Disclose the long expecting flowers, The Attic warbler pours her throat, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oaks thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great! Still is the toiling hand of Care; Yet hark, how through the peopled air The insect-youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly e'er the current skim, To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man : |