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Calls to her bosom all its scatter'd rays,
And pours on Thyrsis the collected blaze;
Braves the chill night, caressing and caress'd,
And folds her hero-lover to her breast.
Less bold, Leander at the dusky hour
Eyed, as he swam, the far love-lighted tower;
Breasted with struggling arms the tossing wave,
And sunk benighted in the watery grave,
Less bold, Tobias claim'd the nuptial bed
Where seven fond lovers by a fiend had bled ;
And drove, instructed by his angel-guide,
The enamour'd demon from the fatal bride.
Sylphs! while your winnowing pinions fann'd the
And shed gay visions o'er the sleeping pair, [air,
Love round their couch effused his rosy breath,
And with his keener arrows conquer'd Death.



Oh thou, the nymph with placid eye!
Oh seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.

Oh come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed,

thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
Oh gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell ;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear, undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears

A vista to the sky.
There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek, submitted head,

And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thoa, oh nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy tender tale ?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Mossrose and violet blossom round,

And lily of the vale.
Oh say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,

And court thy gentle sway?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,

And shed thy milder day. When Eve, her dewy star beneath,

Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, VOL. II.-G

And every storm is laid :
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whispering through the shade.


Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring!

Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crown'd; From the green islands of eternal youth, Crown'd with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade,

Turn, hither turn thy step,

Oh thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding wind;

And through the stormy deep

Breathe thine own tender calm.
Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove

Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,
With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow

Of him, the favour'd youth

That prompts their whisper'd sigh. Unlock thy copious stores—those tender showers That drop their sweetness on the infant buds ;

And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,
And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which through the whispering

With warm and pleasant breath (boughs,
Salute the blowing flowers.

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Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;

And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms. Oh nymph, approach! while yet the temperate sun, With bashful forehead through the cold moist air

Throws his young maiden beams,

And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade,

Protects thy modest blooms

From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe

Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,

Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ;
For oh, not all that Autumn's lap contains,

Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits

Can aught for thee atone,
Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart

Each joy and newborn hope
With softest influence breathes.

WILLIAM COWPER. 1731-1800.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine : thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“ Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Bless'd be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
Oh welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own :
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss :
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolld on thy burial day;
I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nurs’ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting words shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

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