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The misty streams that wind below,
'Tis thou, alone, O Summer mild, Canst bid me carol wood-notes wild : Whene'er I view thy genial scenes, Thy waving woods, embroider'd greens, What fires within my
bosom wake, How glows my mind the reed to take ! What charms like thine the muse can call, With whom 'tis youth and laughter all ! With whom each field's a paradise, And all the globe a bower of bliss! With thee conversing, all the day, I meditate my lightsome lay. These pedant cloisters let me leave, To breathe my votive song at eve,
In vallies, where mild whispers use ,'
But when life's busier scene is o'er, And Age shall give the tresses hoar, I'd fly soft Luxury's marble dome, And make an humble thatch my home, Which sloping hills around inclose, Where many a beech and brown oak grows; Beneath whose dark and branching bowers Its tides a far-fam'd river pours: By Nature's beauties taught to please, Sweet Tusculane of rural ease! Still grot of Peace! in lowly shed Who loves to rest her gentle head. For not the scenes of Attic art Can comfort care, or sooth the heart : Nor burning cheek, nor wakeful eye, For gold and Tyrian purple fly.
Thither, kind Heav'n, in pity lent,
Give me beneath cool shades to sit,
O ever to sweet Poësy
ODE ON THE SPRING.
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers,
And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours
her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
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 oak's thick branches stretch
A broader browner shade,
O'er-canopies the glade,
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) 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 :
The busy murmur glows!
And float amid the liquid noon:
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man:
Shall end where they began.
In Fortune's varying colours drest : Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply:
A solitary fly!