ELEGY V.

ON THE

APPROACH OF SPRING.

Written in the Author's 20th Year.

TIME, never wand'ring from his annual round, Bids Zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground; Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, And earth assumes her transient youth again. Dream I, or also to the spring belong

Increase of genius, and new pow'rs of song?

Spring gives them, and how strange soe'er it seems,
Impels me now to some harmonious themes.
Castalia's fountain and the forked hill
By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill;
My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within
A sacred sound, that prompts me to begin.

Lo! Phœbus comes, with his bright hair he blends
The radiant laurel wreath; Phabus descends;
I mount, and, undepress'd by cumb rous clay,
Through cloudy regions win my easy way;
Rapt through poetick shadowy haunts I fly.
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,
My spirit searches all the realms of light,
And no Tartarean gulfs elude my sight.

But this ecstatick trance-this glorious storm

Of inspiration-what will it perform?

Spring claims the verse, that with his influence glows, And shall be paid with what himself bestows.

Thou, veil'd with op'ning foliage, lead'st the throng Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song;

Let us, in concert, to the season sing,
Civick, and sylvan heralds of the spring!

With notes triumphant, spring's approach declare To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear! The Orient left, and Ethiopia's plains,

The sun now northward turns his golden reins; Night creeps not now; yet rules with gentle sway; And drives her dusky horrours swift away;

Now less fatigued, on this ethereal plain

Bootes follows his celestial wain;

And now the radiant sentinels above,

Less num'rous, watch around the courts of Jove,
For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly
And no gigantick guilt alarms the sky.

Now haply says some shepherd, while he views,
Recumbent on a rock, the redd'ning dews,
This night, this surely, Phœbus miss'd the fair,
Who stops his chariot by her am'rous care.
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow,
Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow,
Resigns her beams, and glad to disappear,
Blesses his aid, who shortens her career.
Come-Phœbus cries-Aurora come-too late
Thou ling❜rest slumb'ring with thy wither'd mate
Leave him, and to Hymettu's top repair!
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there.
The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays,
But mounts, and driving rapidly, obeys.
Earth now desires thee, Phœbus! and t' engage
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age;
Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet,
When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat?
Her breath imparts to ev'ry breeze that blows,
Arabia's harvest, and the Paphian rose.

Her lofty front she diadems around

With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd:
Her dewy locks, with various flow'rs new-blown,
She interweaves, various, and all her own.
For Proserpine, in such a wreath attir'd,
Tænarian Dis himself with love inspir'd.
Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse !
Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs, sues;
Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing,
And all her groves with warbled wishes ring.
Now, unendow'd and indigent, aspires,
The am'rous Earth to engage thy warm desires,
But, rich in balmy drugs, assist thy claim,
Divine Physician! to that glorious name,
If splendid recompense, if gifts can move
Desire in thee, (gifts often purchase love,)
She offers all the wealth her mountains hide,
And all that rests beneath the boundless tide.
How oft, when headlong from the heav'nly steep,
She sees thee playing in the western deep,
How oft she cries-" Ah Phoebus! why repair
Thy wasted forco, why seek refreshment there!
Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave
A face so fair in her unpleasant wave?

Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose
To cool thy tresses in my crystal dews,

The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;
Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,
And breathing fresh, through many a humid roso
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose!
No fears I feel like Semelé to die,
Nor let thy burning wheels approach too nigh,
For thou canst govern them, here therefore rest
And lay thy evening glories on my breast?"

Thus breathes the wanton earth her am'rous flame, And all her countless offspring feel the same;

For Cupid now through every region strays,
Bright'ning his faded fires with solar rays,

His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound,
And his new-pointed shafts more deeply wound;
Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried,

Nor even Vesta at her altar-side;

His mother too repairs her beauty's wane,

And seems sprung newly from the deep again.
Exulting youths the Hymcneal sing,

With Hymen's name roofs, rocks, and valleys, ring;
He, new-attired, and by the season dress'd,

Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron vest.

Now, many a golden-cinctur'd virgin roves
To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves,
All wish, and each alike, some fav'rite youth
Hers in the bonds of Hymencal truth.
Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again,
Nor Phillis wants a song, that suits the strain,
With songs the seaman hails the starry sphere,
And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear;
Jove feels himself the season, sports again
With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train.
Now too the Satyrs, in the dusk of eve,

Their mazy dance through flow'ry meadows weave
And neither god nor goat, but both in kind,
Silvanus wreath'd with cypress, skips behind,
The Dryads leave their hollow sylvan cells
To roam the banks, and solitary dells;
Pan riots now; and from his amorous chafe
Cercs and Cybele seem hardly safe,
And Faunus, all on fire o reach the prize,

In chase of some enticing Oread Hies;
She bounds before, but fears too swift a bound,
And hidden lies, but wishes to be found.
Our shades entice th' Immortals from above,
And some kind pow'r presides o'er every grove ;
And long, ye pow'rs, o'er every grove preside,
For all is safe, and bliss, where ve abide

Return, O Jove! the age of gold restore-
Why choose to dwell where storms and thunders roar >
At least, thou, Phoebus! moderate thy speed!
Let not the vernal hours too swift proceed,
Command rough winter back, nor yield the pole
Too soon to Night's encroaching, long control'

ELEGY VI.

TO CHARLES DIODATI,

Who, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be excused on account of the many feasts to which his friends invited him, and which would not allow him leisure to finish them as he wished.

WITH no rich viands overcharg'd, I send

Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd

friend;

But wherefore should thy muse tempt mine away
From what she loves, from darkness into day?
Art thou desirous to be told how well

I love thee, and in verse? verse cannot tell.
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move
But neither bounds nor measure knows my love.
How pleasant, in tay lines described, appear
December's harmless sports, and rural cheer!
French spirits kindling with cerulean fires,
And all such gambols as the time inspires!

Think not that wine against good verse offends, The muse and Bacchus have been always friends,