Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known! The oak-crown'd Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen Satyrs and Sylvan Boys were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green : Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leap'd up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest : But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : They would have thought who heard the strain They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids Amidst the festal-sounding shades To some unwearied minstrel dancing; Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round: As if he would the charming air repay, O Music! sphere-descended maid, Why, goddess, why, to us denied, W. Collins L CXLII ODE ON THE SPRING O! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours Disclose the long-expecting flowers 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 Beside some water's rushy brink Still is the toiling hand of Care; The insect youth are on the wing, To Contemplation's sober eye And they that creep, and they that fly Alike the busy and the gay In Fortune's varying colours drest Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance Methinks I hear in accents low Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, T. Gray CXLIII THE POPLAR FIELD HE poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew : And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, 'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, CXLIV TO A FIELD MOUSE WEE EE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss 't! |