MARCH 4, 1813.

MARCH! how mild thy genial hours,
Soft azure skies, and gilded showers,
The blaze of lights, the deepening shade,
Tints that flush the cloud and fade;
Now the young wheat's transient gleam,
Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream;
Now, in quick effulgence seen,

On yonder slope its sparkling green;
And, sprinkled o'er the mossy mould,
Crocuses, like drops of gold;

And the lent-lily's paler yellow
Where flowers the asp and water-willow;
And the polyanthus, fair

Its hues, as bath'd in summer air;

And the white violets, that just peep,

And, shelter'd by the rosemary, sleep;
Bursting lilacs, and beneath

Current-buds, that freshly breathe

The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves
With which the obtrusive ivy weaves

Its verdure dark (this day, tho' late
Cut off, to meet a cruel fate)

The cherry, too, that purpling glows,
And, full of leaf, the hedge-row rose;
On this south-wall, the peach-bloom pale,
Where huddles many a clustering snail;
And, round the trunk of yon hoar tree,
Here and there, a humming bee

That wanders to the sunny nook,
Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook ;
The blackbird's trill, and every lay
That warbling wild love, dies away;
And on each ash and elm's grey crest,
Cawing rooks, that frame the nest
Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair;
And lambs that o'er the meadow, brisk
Tug at the teat, and run and frisk;
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise-
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.

YET, ere in recent brightness born,
The moon shall fill each silver horn,
Clear as now we hail its rays

Where evening's crimson vest decays;
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March!
In blackness shroud the ethereal arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden-scene;
Yet, if shoot the vermeil peach,
Tawny-leav'd we mark the beech!
Yet, but yester-morn, was driven
Veiling the refulgent heaven,

What numerous starlings down the waste
As when howl'd the embattled blast!

THEN, shall we not, my Phebe! seize Fleeting pleasures, such as these? Scar'd by winds and rushing rain, Will Spring visit us again? Are we sure, when floods subside, This amber stream shall dimpling glide,

And again so softly steal

Thro' floral tufts, to yonder dale?
May not, where icebolts cease to beat,
The young blooms droop in summer-heat;
Scantier creep the languid rill,0
And the vocal bowers be still?
Then, let us ravish, ere it fly,
Bliss so fugitive, so coy;

Muse on each colour's opening glow,
Trace the blossoms as they blow;
Listen to the choral grove,

And drink the soul of life and love;
And, every breathing zephyr greet,
Mingling talk with kisses sweet!
Shall we not, my Phebe! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?

REV. R. POLWHELE.

IMPROMPTU,

ON MISS O'REILLY'S PICTURE, 1787.
BY EYLES IRWIN, ESQ.

WHEN, on the breast of ANTHONY, was seen
The pictur'd face of HEROD's matchless queen,
Her jealous rival snatch'd the pencil's pride,
And, with her fears, consign'd it to the tide *!

But when with skill, less happy, were portray'd The brighter charms of ANVILLE's blooming maid, Each nymph a compact from her swain would take, To keep the copy, but the life forsake!

* The anecdote of Cleopatra's jealousy of Mariamne, is to be found in Plutarch.

ODE TO GENIUS,

BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

Spoken by Mr. Quin at the Surrey Institution, 1812.

I...

SPIRIT! that nor in air, nor sea, nor earth,
Our grosser mortal sight hath known;
Whose heavenly nature speaks a heavenly birth,
The world thy kingdom, man's firm mind thy throne;
Genius! thou emblem of Divinity!

If aught, save the Eternal-one,

Could claim the bended knee,

To thee should earthly homage bow alone,

And worship his high attribute in thee!

Thou only pure unchangeable,

Amidst a world of change;

Whose never-dying principle,

Through ages and through climes can range,

Like molten gold unmixed remain,

And undebased unite again;

Ductile to all that virtuous is and good,
Nor ever with the wicked blending
Genius! at thy mysterious altars bending,
A thousand tongues thy power proclaim,
A thousand bards exalt thy fame,
A thousand Lyres re-echo to thy name,

But none hath raised th' impenetrable hood:
Shrouded by" excess of light,"

More than by Cimmerian night,

Still hath thy power been felt, but never understood!

11.

Unsearchable thy source; and vain
It were to seek the hidden chain,
Th' electric impulse, sudden, bright,
That flashes forth thy radiant light.
We hear the clash, we see the blaze,
But He alone, who formed the maze
Of Man's wild trackless mind;
He only knows the magic sweet,
Which bids the maddening pulses beat,
And spreads unseen its vital heat,

Like sun-beams on the blind.

Enough for us in every race,

Which time and war and vice have spared, Th' unconquerable flame to trace;

The sacred ashes guard.

Nursed in Beauty's native clime,

Where love lay hid in myrtle bowers;
Whence sprang old Homer's lay sublime;
Whence Sophocles' and Pindar's powers?
Whence but from thee? Oh neʼer again,
So bright, so godlike shalt thou reign,
As when the bards of Greece arose,
Victorious o'er thy deadly foes,
And vanquished space and time.
Yes proudly eminent they stand,
The glory of their fallen land!