Calls to her bosom all its scatter'd rays, ANNE LETITIA BARBAULD. 1743-1825. HYMN TO CONTENT. Oн thou, the nymph with placid eye! Not all the storms that shake the pole Oh come, in simple vest array'd, No more by varying passions beat, To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And Hope, who points to distant years, There Health, through whose calm bosom glide Her influence taught the Phrygian sage With settled smiles to meet: But thou, oh nymph retired and coy! The lowliest children of the ground, Oh say what soft propitious hour When Eve, her dewy star beneath, And every storm is laid: If such an hour was e'er thy choice, ODE TO SPRING. SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire, From the green islands of eternal youth, Oh thou, whose powerful voice More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets That prompts their whisper'd sigh. Unlock thy copious stores-those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds; And silent dews that swell The milky ear's green stem, And feed the flowering osier's early shoots; [boughs, Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. Oh nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun, With bashful forehead through the cold moist air Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade, Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell; Can aught for thee atone, Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. OH that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine: thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss: Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day; I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting words shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, |