A TURKISH ODE OF MESIHI.

(IBID.]
HEAR! how the nightingales, on every spray,
Hail, in wild notes, the sweet return of May !
-The gale that o'er yon waving almond blows,
The verdant bank with silver blossoms strows;
The smiling season decks each flowery glade.
Be gay : too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

What gales of fragrance scent the vernal air ! Hills, dales, and woods, their loveliest mantles wear. Who knows what cares await that fatal day, When ruder gusts shall banish gentle May? Ev'n death, perhaps, our vallies will invade. Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The tulip now its varied hue displays, And sheds, like Ahmed's eye, celestial rays. Ah, nation ever faithful; ever true, The joys of youth, while May invites, pursue ! Will not these notes your timorous minds persuade ? Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The sparkling dewdrops o'er the lilies play,
Like orient pearls, or like the beams of day.
If love and mirth your wanton thoughts engage,
Attend ye nymphs! a poet's words are sage;
While thus you sit beneath the trembling shade,
Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The fresh-blown rose like Zeineb's cheek

appears,
When pearls, like dew-drops, glitter in her ears.
The charms of youth at once are seen and past ;
And nature says, “ They art too sweet to last.'
So blooms the rose ; and so the blushing maid.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

See! yon anemonies their leaves unfold, With rubies flaming and with living gold. -While crystal showers from weeping clouds descend, Enjoy the presence of thy tuneful friend : Now, while the wines are brought, the sofa's laid, Be

gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The plants no more are dried, the meadows dead, No more the rose-bud hangs her pensive head : The shrubs revive in vallies, meads, and bowers, And every stalk is diadem'd with flowers ; In silken robes each hillock stands array'd. Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

Clear drops, each morn, impearl the rose's bloom, And from its leaf the Zephyr drinks perfume ; The dewy buds expand their lucid store : Be this our wealth : ye damsels, ask no more. Though wise men envy, and though fools upbraid, Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

The dew-drops sprinkled, by the musky gale,
Are chang'd to essence ere they reach the dale.
The mild blue sky a rich pavilion spreads,
Without our labour, o'er our favour'd heads.
Let others toil in war, in arts, or trade :
Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

Late, gloomy winter chill'd the sullen air, Till Soliman arose, and all was fair. Soft, in his reign, the notes of love resound, And pleasure's rosy cup goes freely round. Here on the bank, which mantling vines o’ershade, Be gay : too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

May this rude lay from age to age remain,
A true memorial of this lovely train.
Come, charming maid! and hear thy poet sing,
Thyself the rose, and he the bird of spring:
Love bids him sing, and Love will be obey'd.
Be gay: too soon the flowers of Spring will fade.

A MONODY,

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. LYTTELTON.

1747.

(LORD LYTTELTON.*]

I.

Ar length escap'd from every human eye,

From eyery duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share, Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry; Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade, This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made, I now may give my burden'd heart relief, And

pour forth all my stores of grief; Of grief surpassing every other wo,

Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love Can on th’ ennobled mind bestow,

Exceeds the vulgar joys that move Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

His Lordship, it may be observed, bad not attained the dignity of a peerage till some years after this monody was written,

TL.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently-falling rills,
Ye high o'er-shadowing hills,
Ye lawns gay-smiling with eternal green,
Oft have you my Lucy seen!
But never shall you now behold her more:

Nor will she now with fond delight
And taste refin’d, your rural charms explore.

Clos'd are those beauteous eyes in endless night, Those beauteous eyes where beaming us'd to shine Reason's pure light, and Virtue's spark divine.

III.

Oft would the Dryads of these woods rejoice
To hear her heav'nly voice,
For her despising, when she deign’d to sing,
The sweetest songsters of the Spring:
The woodlark and the linnet pleas'd no more ;

The nightingale was mute,

And every shepherd's flute
Was cast in silent scorn away,
While all attended to her sweeter lay.
Ye larks and linnets, now resume your song;

And thou, melodious Philomel,

Again thy plaintive story tell, For death has stop?d that tuneful tongue, Whose music could alone your warbling notes excel.