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Calls Echo from her cell.

Be warn'd, ye fair, that listen round,
A beauteous maid became a sound,

A maid who lov'd too well.

The bright-hair'd sun with warmth benign
Bids tree, and shrub, and swelling vine
Their infant-buds display:

Again the streams refresh the plains,
Which Winter bounds in icy chains,
And sparkling bless his ray.

Life-giving Zephyrs breathe around,
And instant glows th' enamel'd ground
With Nature's vary'd hues :
Not so returns our youth decay'd,
Alas! nor air, nor sun, nor shade,
The spring of life renews.

The sun's too quick-revolving beam
Will soon dissolve the human dream,
And bring th' appointed hour:
Too late we catch his parting ray,
And mourn the idly-wasted day
No longer in our power.

Then happiest he, whose lengthen'd sight Pursues, by virtue's constant light,

A hope beyond the skies:

Where frowning Winter ne'er shall come,

But rosy Spring for ever bloom,

And suns eternal rise.

ON

THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING.

ADDRESSED

TO A LADY IN LONDON.

BY MISS CARTER.

WHILE Soft through water, earth, and air,

The vernal spirits rove,
From noisy joys, and giddy crowds

To rural scenes remove.

The mountain snows are all dissolv'd,
And hush'd the blust'ring gale,
While fragrant Zephyrs gently breathe
Along the flowery vale.

The circling planets' constant rounds

The wintry wastes repair, And still from temporary death

Renew the verdant year.

But ah! when once our transient bloom,

The spring of life, is o'er, That rosy season takes its flight,

And must return no more.

Yet judge by Reason's sober rules,
From false Opinion free,
And mark how little pilfering years
Can steal from you or me.

Each moral pleasure of the heart,
Each smiling charm of truth,
Depends not on the giddy aid
Of wild inconstant youth.

The vain coquet, whose empty pride
A fading face supplies,

May justly dread the wintry gloom
Where all its glory dies.

Leave such a ruin to deplore
To fading forms confin'd;

Nor age, nor wrinkles, discompose
One feature of the mind.

Amidst the universal change,
Unconscious of decay,

It views unmov'd the scythe of Time

Sweep all besides away.

Fix'd on its own eternal frame
Eternal are its joys,

While, borne on transitory wings,
Each mortal pleasure flies.

While ev'ry short-liv'd flower of sense

Destructive years consume,

Through friendship's fair enchanting walks Unfading myrtles bloom.

Nor with the narrow bounds of time
The beauteous prospect ends,

But lengthen'd through the vale of death
To Paradise extends.

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