ON

SPRING.

BY WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOUR, ESQ.

Immortalia ne speres, monet annus-----

HOR.

Now Spring begins her smiling round,
Lavish to paint th' enamel'd ground;
The birds exalt their cheerful voice,
And gay on every bough rejoice.
The lovely Graces, hand in hand,
Knit in Love's eternal band,
With dancing step, at early dawn,
Tread lightly o'er the dewy lawn;
Where'er the youthful Sisters move,
They fire the soul to genial love.
Now, by the river's painted side,
The swain delights his country-bride:
While, pleas'd, she hears his artless vows,
Above the feather'd songster wooes.
Soon will the ripen'd summer yield
Her various gifts to ev'ry field;
Soon fruitful trees, a beauteous show,

With ruby-tinctur'd births shall glow;

Sweet smells, from beds of lilies born,
Perfume the breezes of the morn.
The sunny day, and dewy night,
To rural play my Fair invite;
Soft on a bank of violets laid,
Cool she enjoys the evening-shade;
The sweets of summer feast her eye:
Yet soon, ah! soon will Summer fly.
Attend, my lovely Maid, and know
To profit by the moral show;

Now young and blooming thou art seen,
Fresh on the stalk of vivid green;
Now does th' unfolded bud disclose
Full blown to sight the blushing rose:
Yet, once the sunny season past,
Think not the coz'ning scene will last;
Let not the flatt'rer Hope persuade :
Ah! must I say that this will fade ?
For see the Summer posts away,

Sad emblem of our own decay !
Now Winter, from the frozen North,
Drives his iron chariot forth;

His grisly hand in icy chains

Fair Tweda's silver flood constrains:
Cast up thy eyes, how bleak and bare
He wanders on the tops of Yare!
Behold his footsteps dire are seen
Confest on many a with'ring green.
Griev'd at the sight, when thou shalt see,
A snowy wreath clothe ev'ry tree,

Frequenting now the stream no more,
Thou fly'st, displeas'd, the barren shore.
When thou shalt miss the flow'rs that grew
But late to charm thy ravish'd view,
Shall I, ah horrid! wilt thou say,

Be like to this another day?

Yet, when in snow and dreary frost
The pleasure of the field is lost,
To blazing hearths at home we run,
And fires supply the distant Sun,
In gay delights our hours employ,
We do not lose, but change our joy;
Happy, abandon ev'ry care,

To lead the dance, to court the fair,
To turn the page of ancient Bards,
To drain the bowl, and deal the cards.
But when the beauteous white and red
From the pale ashy cheek is fled;
When wrinkles dire, and Age severe,
Make Beauty fly we know not where:
The fair, whom Fates unkind disarm,
Have they for ever ceas'd to charm?
Or is there left some pleasing art,
To keep secure a captive heart?

Unhappy love! might lovers say,
Beauty, thy food doth swift decay;
When once that short-liv'd stock is spent,
What Art thy famine can prevent?

Virtues prepare with early care,

That Love may live on Wisdom's fare; Vol. XIV.

C

Tho' ecstasy with beauty flies, Esteem is born when beauty dies. Happy to whom the Fates decree The gift of heav'n in giving thee: Thy beauty shall his youth engage; Thy virtue shall delight his age.

WRITTEN

IN SPRING.

AND SENT TO HIS GRACE

DR. THOMAS HERRING,

Archbishop of Canterbury.

BY THE REV, FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.

BRIGHT God of day, whose genial power

Revives the buried seed,

That spreads with foliage every bower,
With verdure every mead,

Bid all thy vernal breezes fly

Diffusing mildness through the sky;
Give the soft season to our drooping plains,
Sprinkled with rosy dews and salutary rains.

Enough has Winter's hand severe
Hurl'd all his terrors round,
Chill'd the fair dawning of the year,
And whiten'd all the ground: