Spring.

THOMSON.

COW from the town,

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,

Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,

Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops.

From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze

Of sweetbrier-hedges I pursue my walk;

Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend

Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,
And see the country, far diffused around,

One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms: where the raptured eye
Hurries from joy to joy; and, hid beneath
The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

Town and Country Life.

COWPER

OD made the country, and man made the town. What wonder, then, that health and virtue-gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all-should most abound, And least be threatened, in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about

In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue
But that of idleness, and taste no scenes,
But such as art contrives, possess ye still
Your element; there only can ye shine;
There only minds like yours can do no harm.
Our groves were planted to console at noon
The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve,
The moonbeam, sliding softly in between.
The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish;
Birds warbling, all the music. We can spare
The splendour of your lamps; they but eclipse
Our softer satellite. Your songs confound
Our more harmonious notes: the thrush departs
Scared, and the offended nightingale is mute.
There is a public mischief in your mirth;

It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
Graced with a sword, and worthier of a fan,
Has made-what enemies could ne'er have done-
Our arch of empire, steadfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.