JOHN BAMPFYLDE. ON CHRISTMAS. WITH footstep slow, in furry pall yclad, His brows enwreath'd with holly never-sere, Or wrapp'st thy visage in a sable cloud; Thee we proclaim with mirth and cheer, nor fail To greet thee well with many a carol loud. JOHN BAMPFYLDE. ON A WET SUMMER. ALL ye who far from town, in rural hall, Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, Enjoying all the sunny day did yield, With me the change lament, in irksome thrall By rains incessant held; for now no call And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall, CHARLOTTE SMITH. WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, Anemonies, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and hare-bell, mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness-no second Spring? CHARLOTTE SMITH. TO THE MOON. QUEEN of the silver bow, by thy pale beam, And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream, CHARLOTTE SMITH. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. SWEET poet of the woods, a long adieu! The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate, For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love. |