TO THE ZEPHYRS.

YE! before whose genial breath
Hovering Death,

Girt with troops of wan diseases,
Quits the' usurped domain of air;
Where, oh! where

Linger ye, propitious breezes?

Hither, where my languid maid
Woos your aid,

Come with balmy spirit blowing;
Gentle harbingers of Spring,
Hither bring

Health in rosy beauty glowing,

Bright-eyed Joy to Youth allied
At her side;

While with giddy gesture after
Trip gay Sports of wilder glance,

Tiptoe Dance,

Dimpled Smiles, and sleek-brow'd Laughter.

Joy-born Mirth shall lead the train;

Soon again

Her each sprightlier Love shall follow,

All who from the front defy,

All who lie

In the dimple's treacherous hollow.

So your praise my song shall tell;
So my shell

Pour to you the liquid measures;
Soft as when your downy wings
Fan the strings,

Murmuring sweetly pensive pleasures.
Ah! no such reward ye seek;
O'er that cheek

Blushing if it meet my gazes,
O'er that bosom's living snow
Free to go,

Little you regard my praises.

Yet, if to my sober ear

Ever dear

Sound your voices sadly sighing, Where from lonely shades my grief Courts relief,

To your airy woe replying;

Mindful now, in amorous play
Boldly gay

As around her charms ye hover,
Oh! in whisper'd sighs reveal
What I feel,

What to you alone discover.

F. LAURENCE.

ODE.

O WAVING Woods! O hills!

O springs, and warbling rills!

O far spread wilds, and sun-excluding bowers! Where, stung with anguish deep,

I wander'd oft to weep,

And waste unseen the slowly lapsing hours!

Once more from cities proud,

Tired of their moiling crowd,

Soon shall I come my former paths to tread ;
But not, as erst, shall I

Amid your beauties sigh,

To all but pain and hopeless sorrow dead.

Fair to my gladden'd eyes

Will every object rise,

As through your well known haunts I rove along;
For I shall not deplore,

Nor teach your echoes more
Of fruitless love the melancholy song.

Sad were indeed those days
When, flying man's rude gaze,

A host of woes my sicken'd soul alarm'd;
Then nor the woodland strains

Nor verdure-vested plains

Nor gales odorous nor bright landscapes charm'd.

Then, misery's chosen child,

I sought your loneliest wild,

Where stole the brook, scarce heard its murmurs And, stretch'd on dewy earth,

I cursed my hour of birth,

And pour'd to winds my unavailing plaint.

Sad were those days indeed!

But soon my pastoral reed,

[faint;

To songs of joy awaked, ye glad shall hear :
For now the clouds are pass'd

That long my life o'ercast;

The forms are fled of anguish and of fear.

Yes, here your gloomy reign

Ends, O long-cherish'd train

Of moody thoughts and soul-depressing cares;
For me Ianthe wreaths

A myrtle crown, and breathes

[prayers.

Soft rapturous sighs, fond vows, and tenderest

She, she, divinest maid,

Blooms, in such charms array'd

As opening roses on their sunny beds!
Her accents might beguile

Despair; her look, her smile

On all around delicious influence sheds.

But not her smiles alone,

Her voice of melting tone,

Nor bloom, nor grace my willing heart control; For in her form enshrined

Resides the radiant mind

That crowns, illumes, and animates the whole.

By her beloved, new born
Am I to bliss; the morn

More sweet appears, more blue the' expanse above;
More mild the passing gale,

More verdant seems the vale,

And all is gladness, harmony, and love.

Now, to my unfilm'd sight,
O sun! thy golden light,

From which I wont disgusted to retire,

Once more I feel is dear,

Once more my breast can cheer,

And ardent hopes and thoughts sublime inspire.

Dian, more fair meseems

Thou art than when thy beams Saw me retreat in solitude to pine; And ye, aye burning stars,

That guide your emerald cars

Mid boundless space, with nobler lustre shine.

Now, joyous as I rove,

Each cool and whispering grove,

Not less to bliss than to 'pale passion' dear, Shall bid its feather'd throng

Awake a sprightlier song,

And pour delight upon my tranced ear.

Nor thou, my lyre, that oft,

In numbers sweetly soft,

Hast plain'd the story of thy master's woes,
Now, while his heart beats high

With ecstasy, shalt lie

Unstrung, and sunk in indolent repose.

Now, from thy vocal wires,

While love, while beauty fires,
And rosy-pinion'd pleasure hovers round,
No strains of mournful fall

My rapid hand shall call,

But bid thy boldest harmonies resound.

Yes, glowing be the song!

Such raptures well belong

To him who sings the bless'd Ianthe's praise : And lo! more mildly bright

Than Hesper's beamy light

She comes, the queen, the glory of my lays.