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62

AUTUMN - SPRING - WINTER, &c.

Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age,
Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage;
Last, winter creeps along with tardy pace,
Sour is his front, and furrow'd is his face.

2. See, winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train; Vapours, and clouds, and storms.

DRYDEN'S Ovid.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

3. As yet the trembling year is unconfin'd,
And winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
Deform the day delightless.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

4. But see, the fading many-colour'd woods,
Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round
Embrown.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

5. From bright'ning fields of ether, fair disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes;
In pride of youth, and felt thro' nature's depth,
He comes, attended by the sultry hours,
And ever-fanning breezes on his way.

THOMSON'S Seasons.

....

6. O winter! ruler of the inverted year,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.

COWPER'S Task.

7. Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer ling'ring blooms delay'd.

GOLDSMITH'S Deserted Village.

8. And winter, lingering, chills the lap of spring.

GOLDSMITH'S Traveller.

9. Fain would my muse the flowing treasure sing, And humble glories of the youthful spring.

POPE.

10. Where summer's beauty 'midst of winter stays, And winter's coolness, spite of summer's rays.

POPE.

11. Eternal Spring, with smiling verdure, here
Warms the mild air, and crowns the youthful year.

GARTH.

12. But mighty nature bounds as from her birth.
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health in the gale, and freshness in the stream.

BYRON'S Lara.

13. The merry May hath pleasant hours, and dreamily they

glide,

As if they floated, like the leaves, upon a silver tide;

The trees are full of crimson buds, the woods are full of

birds,

And the waters flow to music, like a tune with pleasant

words.

14. The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snow.

DAVID HUMPHREYS.

15. The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow declining year,
More sober than the buxom, blooming May,
And therefore less the favourite of the world;
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.

16.

And the meridian sun,

CARLOS WILCOX.

Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth.

17. The melancholy days are o'er,
The saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods,
And meadows brown and sear.

CARLOS WILCOX.

W. C. BRYANT.

64

AUTUMN-SPRING-WINTER, &c.

18. The dead leaves strew the forest walk,
And wither'd are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs black'ning on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers.

19. The world leads round the seasons in a choir,
For ever changing, and for ever new,
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful and the tender, in one strain.

20. The gentle gales of Spring went by,

And fruits and flowers of summer die ;
The autumn winds swept o'er the hill,
And winter's breath came cold and chill.

J. BRAINARD.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

GOODRICH.

21. What scenes of delight, what sweet visions she brings
Of freshness, of gladness and mirth-

Of fair sunny glades where the buttercup springs,
Of cool, gushing fountains, of rose-tinted wings,
Of birds, bees and blossoms, all beautiful things,
Whose brightness rejoices the earth!

MRS. A. B. WELBY.

22. The bleak wind whistles-snow-showers, far and near,
Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath past away, and, cold and drear,
Winter stalks in, with frozen mantle bound.

23. Hark! through the dim woods dying

With a moan,

Faintly the winds are sighing;—

Summer's gone!

MRS. NORTON.

MRS. NORTON.

24. First budding Spring appears, next Summer's heat, Then Autumn's fruits, then Winter's cold and sleet.

J. T. WATSON.

25. Then rugged Winter his appearance makes, Cloth'd in his cheerless robes of snow and frost, And vegetation all the land forsakes,

And flowers decay, and all Spring's fruits are lost.

J. T. WATSON.

1.

AVARICE-BRIBERY-MISER.

Shall we now

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?
And sell the mighty space of our large honours,
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.

2. The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all, Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scaped,

SHAKSPEARE.

But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts
That live about him; never has commerce
With any, but to ruin them.

3. Of Age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there can be;
Is it not folly, when the way we ride
Is short, for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title Youth may own,
Το
reap in autumn what a spring had sown;
And, with the providence of bees or ants,
Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.
But Age scarce sows, ere death stands by to reap,
And to a stranger's hand transfer the heap.

MAY.

4. Who thinketh to buy villany with gold,
Shall ever find such faith so bought so sold.

DENHAM.

6*

MARSTON.

66

AVARICE - BRIBERY - MISER.

5. But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o'er his gold, and griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.

6. The lust of gold, unfeeling and remorselessThe last corruption of degenerate man.

DRYDEN.

DR. JOHNSON's Irene.

7. 'Tis strange the miser should his care employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.

POPE'S Moral Essays.

8. Their crimes on gold shall misers lay
Who've pawn'd their sordid souls away?
Let bravoes, then, whose blood is spilt,
Upbraid the passive sword with guilt.

GAY'S Fables.

9. Oh cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake
The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;
First starv'd in this, then damn'd in that to come.

BLAIR'S Grave.

10. Who, lord of millions, trembles for his store,
And fears to give a farthing to the poor;
Proclaims that penury will be his fate,
And, scowling, looks on charity with hate.

11.

DR. WOLCOT's Peter Pindar.

The love of gold, that meanest rage,
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear,
And dies collecting lumber in the rear.

12. Oh gold! why call we misers miserable?

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall;
Theirs is the best bower-anchor, the chain cable,
Which holds fast other pleasures great and small.

MOORE.

BYRON'S Don Juan.

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