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Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail!
Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travellid far,
Exulting in thy conscious light;
Hath spread his charms before thy sight:
Miss Scott, of Ancram.
TO THE OWL.
Through the clouds that cover her,
Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry!
Sure, thy notes are harmony!
Wanders to the lonely shade,
Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,
To her it is not harmony !
Wrings his hands in agony,
Smiled the Spring with angel face;
Rushed into her sire's embrace-
For ever nearest to his smiles-
Or India's citron-cover'd isles, More remote and buxom brown
The queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar
Whirls to death the roaring whale,
Howls his war-song to the gale:
Save when down the ravag'd globe
He travels on his native storm; Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form; Till night's returning lord assume
The shaft that drives him to the northern field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-coyer'd shield.
O sire of storms! whose savage ear
Fast descending as thou art,
Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruined year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare,
Nor freeze the wreteb's falling tear; To shiv'ring Want's unmantled bed
Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend,
Of innocence descend !
Breathe on yonder tented shores,
O winds of Winter ! list ye there
To many a deep and dying groan ?
May spare the victim fallen low;
ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,
And wake the purple year!
The untaught harmony of Spring :
Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade,
O’er-canopies the glade,
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose :
The busy murmur glows!
And float amid the liquid noon:
Quick-glancing to the Sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
Shall end where they began.
In fortune's varying colours dress’d:
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear, in accents low,
The sportive kind reply :
A solitary fly!
No painted plumage to display: