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O D E S.


Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear,
Disclose the long expecting 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,
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 ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!


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Stili is the toiling hand of Care;

The panting herds repose :
Yet hark, how through the peopled air

The busy murmur glows !
The insect-youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily gilded trim

Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of Man :
And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.
Alike the Busy and the Gay
But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours dressid :
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:
Poor moralist ! and what art thou ?

A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glittering female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display :
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gonem

We frolic while 'tis May.

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