And see the spangled branches shine;
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the gray stone spreads;

And see the clustered berries bright
Amid the holly's gay green leaves;
The ivy round the leafless oak,
That clasps its foliage close.

So Virtue, diffident of strength,
Clings to Religion's firmer aid;
So, by Religion's aid upheld,
Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the spring,
Whose waters, hid from summer-sun,
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's ear
With more than melody.

Green moss shines there, with ice incased; The long grass bends its spearlike form; And lovely is the silvery scene

When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection, too, may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud,

Or bids the floweret bloom;

For Nature soon, in Spring's best charms,
Shall rise revived from Winter's grave,
Expand the bursting bud again,

And bid the flower rebloom.

BATH, 1793.

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY.

COME, melancholy Moralizer, come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now

The sepulchre of Time.

Come, Moralizer, to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days;
For well the funeral song

Befits this solemn hour.

But, hark! even now the merry bells ring round With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,

This consecrated day,

To Joy and Merriment.

Mortal! while Fortune with benignant hand

Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun

Illumes thy summer-day,

Canst thou rejoice, rejoice that Time flies fast;
That Night shall shadow soon thy summer-sun;
That swift the stream of Years
Rolls to Eternity?

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If power be thine, remember what thou art!
Remember thou art man,

And death thine heritage!

Hast thou known Love? Doth Beauty's better sun Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, Her eye all eloquence,

All harmony her voice?

Oh state of happiness! - Hark, how the gale Moans deep and hollow through the leafless grove! Winter is dark and cold;

Where now the charms of Spring?

Say'st thou that Fancy paints the future scene In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stoled maid With frowning front severe

Appalls the shuddering soul?

And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form, When, as she sports her in some happier mood, Her many-colored robes

Float varying in the sun?

Ah! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road Leads o'er a barren mountain's storm-vexed height, With wistful eye behold

Some quiet vale far off.

And there are those who love the pensive song,
To whom all sounds of mirth are dissonant;
Them in accordant mood

This thoughtful strain will find.

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing, when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,

That one day more is gone.

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleased he knows
The World a pilgrimage,

The Grave his inn of rest.

BATH, 1794.

WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands wend, and there
In lovely Nature see the God of love:
The swelling organ's peal

Wakes not my soul to zeal,

Like the sweet music of the vernal grove.

The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest
Excite not such devotion in my breast,
As where the noontide beam,
Flashed from some broken stream,
Vibrates on the dazzled sight;
Or where the cloud-suspended rain
Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;
Or when, reclining on the cliff's huge height,
I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands shall repair,

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes,
And hear all Nature's melodies.

The primrose bank will there dispense
Faint fragrance to the awakened sense;
The morning beams that life and joy impart
Will with their influence warm my heart;
And the full tear that down my cheek will steal,
Will speak the prayer of praise I feel.

Go thou, and seek the House of Prayer!
I to the woodlands bend my way,

And meet Religion there!

She needs not haunt the high-arched dome.to pray.
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day: :
At liberty she loves to rove,

Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale;
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove,
Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.