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Dull Winter stays his creeping step to pause,
And wishful turns his icy eyes On April's meads. Beckoning on flowery May, With gentle shadowy hand thou movest away The lingering churl. Swift o'er the primrose dale The new-waked bee his humming labour plies;
And sudden from each budding grove
Incense to heaven, the songs of love, Attest rejoicing Nature's pplause.
Glistening with dew the green-hair'd Spring Walks though the woods; and, smiling in her train,
Youth flutters gay on cherub wing ; And life exulting lifts the eye to heaven.
And crown'd with bearded grain,
And hay grass breathing odours bland, Bold Summer comes in manhood's lusty prime.
Anon his place is given
To veteran Autumn: yellow glows His waving robe: with conscious mien sublime
He proudly lifts his sun-brown'd brows
High o'er the loaded clime.
But soon decrepit age he shows,
He flies the plunder'd land.
And soon his snowy mantle wide he throws
O’er vale and hill, and icicles he weeps.
With faint and silvery beam,
While languid nature sleeps.
Safe from the tempest breme
That howls without, and beating rain,
And with the feats of former days,
And loves of ladies passing bright,
These are thy grateful changes, mighty power,
Invigor'd vegetation wakes,
And Spring, with primrose garland crown'd, The seeds of plenty o'er the fuming ground
From her green mantle shakes.
HYMN ON SOLITUDE.
HAIL, mildly pleasing Solitude,
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
A thousand shapes you wear with ease,
Thine is the doubtful soft decline,
Descending angels bless thy train,
Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell!
SUNK is the sun, and on yon mountain head
Hangs the last gleam of the declining day; Fades every landscape, deepens every shade;
The clouds, late golden, now are robed in gray. And thine is now the rule, Imperial Night!
All mildly sitt'st thou on thy shadowy throne; While Superstition, seized with self-affright,
Throws o'er thy brow a horror all her own.
Now to her monster-breeding brain appear
And signs and portents boding ill to come; And flame-eyed goblins gliding o'er the green, And murder'd ghosts with bleeding wounds are
seen, And screechowls heard, that tell her of the tomb. But musing Wisdom seeks thy friendly shade,
To her more gentle than the glare of noon: She loves thy sober solemn charms array'd
With the pale glories of the pensive moon. Fatigued with pleasures, or with cares oppress'd,
Tired of the proud, the vicious, and the vain; How joys my soul, when wheel'd beneath the west
Sinks the gay sun, and hails thy gentler reign! Impertinence's buzz and busy wings, Envy's loud hiss, and sly Detraction's stings,
The taunts of Insolence, the wretch's woes, The stir and strife of Fortune and her tools, The roar of Riot, and the laugh of Fools
No longer interrupt her loved repose. Then Wisdom clears her intellectual eyes,
And elevates her aim to things Divine, Bids all the choir of Mental Graces rise,
Bids all the charms of Moral Beauty shine. Silent are now the groves, no silvan throat
Tunes its wild descant; but the hoot I hear Of the lone owl, though no melodious note,
Yet pleasing still to Contemplation's ear. The stars bright-sparkling o'er the ethereal way, The moon's mild gleams that ever quivering play