VERSES WRITTEN IN LONDON ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

EARLY the sun his radiant axle guides,
 Sloping his steep course with the Pleiades;
 On every fragant briar the flowret blooms,
 And the wild woodlark chaunts his early song
 In heedless carol, to the smiling Hours,
 Young Maia's festive train; their wavy dance
 She jocund leads, and from her horn profuse
 Pours roses, violets, woodbines, eglantine,
 Fair Flora's dower, what time the youthful Spring
 Clasp'd her all-blushing in a secret bower:
 Thou the mild offspring of their warm embrace,
 Oh lovely May, and these thine heritage,
 Which bounteous thou with an unsparing hand
 Scatterest to all, tho' chief thou lov'st to deck
 The village Phaebe's brow, and fairer far
 Is thy adorning, than the sunny glow
 Of eastern ruby, ill assorted grace
 That decks not but deforms the faded cheek
 Of the wan courtier. — Far more raptur'd greets
 Fancy's sond ear, where'er she musing roves,
 Thy minstrelsy untutor'd, than the trill
 And languid descant of Italian art. 
Yet sings the woodlark, and the hawthorn blooms,
 Unheard the song, the fragrance unperceiv'd
 By me; tho' not among the sons of men
 There lives, who listens with more raptur'd ear,
 Or feels more lively, Nature's varied boon. 
For tho' confined in the city walls
 To dwell with busy Care, and with him watch
 The call of Interest, is my lot affix'd,
 Far happier seems to me the peasant's life,
 Who treads the furrow labouring, yet his mind
 Vacant of thought can muse of what around
 Strikes his rapt eye with beauty, or his ear
 With pleasing song, than if a golden mine
 Disclos'd its boundless treasures, but condemn'd
 My carking thought, to watch the gilded mischief,
 And cunningly devise t' increase the store. 

Bereav'd of every pleasure Nature gives
 Each plain but heart-felt rapture, what is wealth? 
In artful mazes we but toil for bliss:
 True Pleasure dwells not in the arched roof,
 She sings no carol to the midnight ball;
 The loaded board and Bacchus' flustering draughts
 In vain are tryed, for ah she dwells not there! 
She dwells not with such rude ill-manner'd mirth,
 But seeks with her mild sister Chearfulness
 The russet plain; there prompts the virgin's song,
 Breathes the brisk carol from the cottage reed,
 Strikes the quick tabor glad with echoing pulse,
 And animates the village holiday. 
Nor then alone but when his honest labour
 Calls the good swain, she early joins his step;
 For the mild radiance of the opening dawn
 Gives to her sight the wide-extended view
 Of hill and dale, hoar forest, flowering heath,
 Rich harvest, verdant meadow, where the stream
 Rolls far its plenteous wave, and all around
 To Pleasure's ear most grateful, thousand birds,
 Lark, linnet, thrush, and thou of all the grove
 The sweetest songster, witching Philomel,
 Art rising to hymn out thy morning song. 

Thou too at eve, when all his labour o'er,
 He at the furrow's end unyokes the steer,
 And seeks with weary step his rest at home,
 Dost with thy tranquil warble sooth his soul;
 Best prelude to the peace his cottage gives. 

There at the door his numerous offspring watch
 Their sire's return, and eager run to tell
 The tyding of his coming, while his dame
 Plys her glad evening care, to deck the board
 With food uncater'd by the baleful hand
 Of Luxury, and fittest to refresh
 His toil-worn spirit, and her smiling welcome
 Gives its due relish to the simple fare. 

What are to this the proud luxurious feasts,
 The City's boast, where distant colonies
 Of East and Western worlds must be explor'd
 To strike the sickly palate's feeble sense
 With faint delight? Oh what are all our joys,
 Ev'n those of monarchs, to the thousand beauties
 That strike the rapt soul of the rudest hind? 

Can Art's best mimicry their form express? 
Can rich Loraine mix up the glowing tint
 Bright as Aurora? Can he form a shade
 To strike the fancy with a gloom so solemn
 As every thicket, copse, or secret grove
 At twilight hour affords? Can savage Rosa
 With aught so wildly noble fill the mind,
 As where the ancient oak in the wood's depth
 Has shed his leafy honours, and around
 The woodman with fell axe has lower'd the pride
 Of many a tall tree, he deserted stands
 A barren trunk, while rude winds howl around,
 And dreary torrents lash his naked limbs? 
Mean time the rifting thunder dreadful roars,
 The livid lightnings flash, and elements
 Conjoin'd pour out their wrath, as if to rend
 The lone, defenceless, aged, feeble oak. 
Such scenes awake Imagination's powers
 To sacred thought; such Rosa cannot paint;
 'Tis his alone to show the shatter'd trunk:
 The winds keen howl, the thunder's aweful sound,
 The dreary rain, these mock the pencil's power. 

Can aught of artful music sooth the soul
 To so serene a temper, as the flight
 Of songsters in the grove? or can thy strain,
 (Tho' there Enchantment strike the magic chord)
 Oh matchless Purcell! with so wild a charm
 Transport the mind, as when at dusk of eve
 From the hoar battlement the lone owl's cry
 Pierces the awful silence, and the fall'n
 And time-worn hollow towers convey the sound
 To the near wood, where in the devious path
 Retired Fancy wanders, on her ear
 The faint sound murmurs, strait the distant low
 Of unyok'd heifer, strait the cuckow's note
 She hears, while oft the roving Zephyr's tread
 Rustling alarms her, and the measur'd step
 Of the slow steer, who brushes thro' the thicket
 To seek his food, beats duly regular. 
As on he wanders, thro' the opening bower
 He sees the pale moon rising; clouds on clouds
 Pil'd mountainous awhile obstruct her beam,
 Till labouring thence she lifts her silver brow,
 And pours her full ray on the ivy'd steeple. 
And hark its bell now tolls the minute knell,
 And thro' the churchway path the surplic'd priest
 Walks slowly forward, while the snowy pall
 Covering the relicks of some love lorn virgin,
 Passes with aweful pace along the glade. 

Wrapt harmonist! what tho' thy studied chord
 Can sound the slow knell, echo to the note
 The lone owl utters, breathe the heifer's low,
 And mark the funeral step with pausing cadence,
 And music can no more, where is the tower
 O'er-hung with-ivy, seen by the pale moon,
 Whose faint beam glimmers on the snowy pall? 
Where are the rocky clouds from whence she breaks? 
Yet do not these, does not the rustling breeze
 And the slow-treading heifer add delight? 
Do not accordant senses join to fill
 The musing mind with calm and holy rapture? 
And can the city by the utmost force
 Of mimic art, with labour'd imitation
 So soothe the soul, or give such mild delight? 

Ye gay and sportive votaries of Joy,
 Forgive the thoughtless Muse, for she has led me
 To talk of pleasing horror, and the bliss
 Which melancholy gives; ye cannot form
 Amid the circling follies, which urge on
 Your laughing hours, perhaps ye cannot form
 A notion of these joys, and with a taunt
 Of high contempt, despise the wild enthusiasm. 
Yet on the well-trod stage have ye not seen
 Your Roscius fired by the natural bard,
 Immortal Shakespear, wander the bleak heath
 A poor and outcast king, nor blame the winds
 Whose keen tooth seiz'd his age, nor chide the elements
 For their unkindness, while the ruffling storm
 Tore the proud garments from his shivering trunk,
 And the fierce lightnings fir'd his maddening brain? 
Have you not then felt horror? Would ye not
 Change your rich pomp for Edgar's naked hovel,
 And be the poor king's host? — Have ye not wish'd
 To range with Rosaline the forest wild,
 Or live beneath the shelter of some oak
 With melancholy Jaques? Tell me, why then
 Ye look'd on wealth and greatness with a scorn? 
Why but because the Muse with native strength
 Pour'd truth on Fancy's eye; and yet the Muse
 Can only boast in the most warm description
 A faint resemblance, nor has she such force
 To strike as Nature has. Alas! her voice
 But wakes remembrance of our absent bliss;
 And when she sings of incense-breathing Spring,
 She wafts no odours to the longing sense,
 But only prompts our sigh, that we must dwell
 Confin'd in the full city, distant far
 From every scene of rural innocence,
 Whose woods, whose shades, whose storms, or funerals,
 Ev'n raise a sense of pleasure. What can then
 The brighter views, what can the happy hour
 That gives the blushing bride to the true arms
 Of faithful Damon? Thenot pleas'd revives
 To former youth, and gayest of the day
 Provokes the village mirth, and from his soul
 Enjoys the spousal of his boy, who scarce
 (O'ercome with rapture) can himself conduct
 His festival; and but for busy Thenot,
 Each due right were neglected, and the guests
 Unbidden by the tabor's sprightly sound
 To seek the green, and in the jocund dance
 Each maiden with her youth breathe sport and joy,
 Save the still happier pair: their greater bliss
 Fills the whole breast, nor leaves a vacant place
 For lighter mirth. Unnotic'd speaks the pipe:
 They hear no sound but the endearing voice
 Of mutual love: they do not mark the joy
 In every face around; for their attention,
 Fix'd on each other, watches every glance
 Diffused by the lovely languid eye. 
Well may all else be unperceiv'd; for who
 Observes bright Hesper dart his pointed ray,
 When riding high mild Cynthia pours serene
 Her steady beam. Oh tell me, when compar'd
 To these true raptures, what's the shadowy pomp
 And artful splendour, when the golden shackles
 Fetter two venal souls, by interest call'd
 To prostitute the ever-hallow'd rites
 Of holy Hymen? — On the village plain
 Nought joins but mutual love; no sordid motive
 Promotes unnatural union; but the flame
 That first united glows throughout their life
 A steady fire, whose unabating light
 Gilds Youth with rapture, and with fostering warmth
 Chears drooping Age, who smiling sees his offspring
 Step forth to claim the joys he celebrates
 With annual hospitality, what time
 The circling year brings round the happy day
 That shower'd down blessings on him, when it gave
 To his fond vow the willing Sylvia's charms,
 Then blooming young, now hoary, but her heart
 Unchang'd by time; for still the same desire
 To add to every joy, or fondly soothe
 Each woe he feels, reigns unabated there. 
His social roof receives each welcome guest,
 His open heart diffuses round his pleasure,
 And each plain neighbour with unfeigning tongue
 Congratulates his bliss. Who would not leave
 For these sincere delights, the pageant pomp,
 The rich array, the courtly formal speech
 Unutter'd by the heart, the birth-day wish
 Of venal hirelings, who for interest croud
 The glittering levee? Happier (Reason deems
 View'd in each light) the simple village life,
 Than all that courtiers wish, or kings bestow. 
Kings cannot give a boon of so rich price
 As are thy smiles, O lovely Health! and thou
 Shunning the tumult, to the rural green
 Retirest. There, not built by mortal hand,
 Stands on the southern slope of the fresh hill
 Thy temple, from whose roof the eglantine
 And vagrant woodbine hang; and at the porch
 Sits thy good priestess Ease, administring
 To Exercise (who up the gentle slope
 By moderate footing moves) the holy cup
 Of Temperance, nymph of the crystal spring
 That dwells beneath thy altar; and from thence
 Warbling with gentle lapse joins the full stream,
 That winding wild delays its silver course
 In the rich mead, whose bank the peasant oft
 Approaches to allay his thirst, and quaffs
 The simple beverage from the limpid fount. 
Bright virgin, thee of all the Powers who range
 The rural plain, I woo with constant vow
 Most ardent! Deign around my temples bind
 Thy fragrant wreath, and deck my purpled cheek
 With thy rich glow. Then undisturb'd the mind
 Musing pursues its holy meditation,
 And rapt in trance, can trace a thousand gifts
 Shower'd by the gracious hand of Nature's King
 To deck the various field. The wondering eye
 Roams o'er the fair creation; then to heaven
 Unbidden soars; for the full soul imprest
 With holy transport, there directs its view
 From whence its blessings flow, and the rapt voice
 Accordant hymns the grateful song of praise. 
The rapid gusts of passion, which or pride,
 Or folly, or the thousand varying forms
 Of courtly affectation ever raise,
 Here all subside, and the composed breast
 Expands with love, and to its utmost power
 Diffuses blessings to mankind, nor fears
 Ingratitude should check, or pride should spurn
 The offer'd bounties of the generous heart. 

Bless'd be the day, and doubly bless'd the hour,
 When my Fidele with unfeigned vow
 Gave her fond hand, and own'd her constant love:
 Tho' since that hour already thrice the sun
 From every sign has seen our growing bliss;
 And tho' thy smile of unaffected love
 Adds joy to every joy, and charms to ease
 The brow of Care; tho' thou art all that heaven
 Could give in woman, tenderness, and truth,
 And all my heart e'er wish'd, when warmest Fancy
 Form'd the fond future view of houshold bliss;
 Yet happier still perhaps our lot had been,
 Hadst thou beneath the rural thatch receiv'd
 My faithful vow, and we had never heard
 Of town or city life; a Marian thou,
 And rustic Corin I. Then on the plain
 Contented we had pass'd Life's little day. 
While Youth with sprightly beam illum'd her hours,
 They would move on with joy; and when at noon
 Firm Manhood call'd us forth to till the soil,
 And with our labouring hand direct the plough,
 We would be ready, nor refuse the task,
 Due tribute to the public; till at eve
 Our vigour lost, when Age came creeping on,
 We would unyoke our heifers, and retire
 To welcome ease, our best skill then employ'd
 At our own home; attentive there to thatch
 The chinks which Time had made, and to root up
 Each foul weed that deform'd our little plot. 
This business over, calm we should attend
 Th' approaching hour of our eternal rest;
 And when it came, borne to our peaceful grave
 By the plain villager; what tho' no tomb
 Of sculptur'd marble call'd the passing eye
 To read our story, yet the cottage tear
 Should on our ashes fall, and the good heart
 O'erflow sincerely for a neighbour lost:
 Upon our bier the virgin troop would hang
 Fresh-woven chaplets of the sweetest flowers:
 Green turf should deck our grave; and every year
 In spring-time would some friendly hand with care
 Bind the fresh briar around, to guard the place
 From the rude insult of the careless step;
 And faithful Memory to late time record,
 We were the happiest pair of human kind. 
