ΤΟ

[Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take
That subtile Power, the never-halting Time,
Lest a mere moment's putting-off should make
Mischance almost as heavy as a crime.]

“WAIT, prithee, wait!" this answer Lesbia threw Forth to her Dove, and took no further heed; Her eye was busy, while her fingers flew

Across the harp, with soul-engrossing speed;

But from that bondage when her thoughts were freed She rose, and toward the close-shut casement drew, Whence the poor unregarded Favorite, true

To old affections, had been heard to plead

With flapping wing for entrance. What a shriek Forced from that voice so lately tuned to a strain Of harmony! -a shriek of terror, pain,

And self-reproach!-for, from aloft, a Kite Pounced, and the Dove, which from its ruthless beak She could not rescue, perished in her sight!

RURAL ILLUSIONS.

1.

SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright
Than those of fabulous stock?

A second darted by; and lo!

Another of the flock,

Through sunshine flitting from the bough

To nestle in the rock.

Transient deception! a gay freak

Of April's mimicries!

Those brilliant Strangers, hailed with joy

Among the budding trees,

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray

To frolic on the breeze

2.

Maternal Flora! show thy face,

And let thy hand be seen

Which sprinkles here these tiny flowers,
That, as they touch the green,
Take root (so seems it) and look up
In honour of their Queen.

Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,
That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,
Most dainty, most admired,

Were only blossoms dropped from twigs
Of their own offspring tired.

3.

Not such the World's illusive shows;

Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave

The Floweret as it springs,

For the Undeceived, smile as they may,

Are melancholy things:

But gentle Nature plays her part

With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth

So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased

Whom oftenest she beguiles.

THIS LAWN, &c.

THIS Lawn, a carpet all alive

With shadows flung from leaves-to strive In dance, amid a press

Of sunshine. an apt emblem yields

Of Worldlings revelling in the fields

Of strenuous idleness;

Less quick the stir when tide and breeze Encounter, and to narrow seas

Forbid a moment's rest;

The medley less when boreal Lights
Glance to and fro like aery Sprites
To feats of arms addrest!

Yet, spite of all this eager strife,
This ceaseless play, the genuine life
That serves the steadfast hours,
Is in the grass beneath, that grows
Unheeded, and the mute repose
Of sweetly-breathing flowers.

THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS.

FLATTERED With promise of escape

From every hurtful blast,

Spring takes, O sprightly May! thy shape, Her loveliest and her last.

Less fair is summer riding high

In fierce solstitial power,

Less fair than when a lenient sky

Brings on her parting hour.

When earth repays with golden sheaves

The labours of the plough,

And ripening fruits and forest leaves

All brighten on the bough,

What pensive beauty autumn shows,

Before she hears the sound

Of winter rushing in, to close

The emblematic round!