XLII.

TO SHAKESPEARE.

THOMSON.

By yon hills with morning spread,
Lifting up the tufted head,

By those golden waves of corn,
Which the laughing fields adorn,
By the fragrant breath of flowers,
Stealing from the woodbine bowers,
By this thought-inspiring shade,
By the gleamings of the glade,
By the babbling of the brook,
Winding slow in many a crook,
By the rustling of the trees,
By the humming of the bees,

By the woodlark, by the thrush
Wildly warbling from the bush,

By the fairy's shadowy tread

O'er the cowslip's dewy head,-
Father, monarch of the stage,

Glory of Eliza's age,

Shakespeare! deign to lend thy face,

This romantic nook to grace,

Where untaught nature sports alone,

Since thou and nature are but one.

XLIII.

ON THOMSON'S SEASONS.

Lo! Thomson deigns to grace the bower I made,
And dwell a tuneful tenant of my shade!
Hail, Nature's poet, whom she taught alone
To sing her works, in numbers like her own,
Sweet as the Thrush, that warbles in the vale,
And soft as Philomela's tender tale;

She lent her pencil too, of wondrous power,
To catch the rainbow, or to form the flower
Of many mingling hues; and smiling said,
(But first with laurel crown'd her favourite's head)
"These beauteous children, though so fair they shine,

"Fade in my Seasons, let them live in thine: "And live they shall, the charm of every eye, "Till nature sickens, and the Seasons die."

XLIV.

THE EVENING PRIMROSE

-LANGHORNE

THERE are, that love the shades of life,
And shun the splendid walks of fame;
There are, that hold it rueful strife

To risk ambition's losing game:

That, far from envy's lurid eye,

The fairest fruits of genius rear; Content to see them bloom and die

In friendship's small, but kindly sphere

Than vainer flowers though sweeter far,
The evening primrose shuns the day;

Blooms only to the western star,
And loves its solitary ray.

In Eden's vale an aged hind,

At the dim twilight's closing hour, On his time-smoothed staff reclined, With wonder view'd the opening flower.

"Ill-fated flower, at eve to blow,"

In pity's simple thought he cries,

"Thy bosom must not feel the glow

"Of splendid suns, or smiling skies.

"Nor thee, the vagrants of the field,
"The hamlet's little train behold;
"Their eyes to sweet oppression yield,
"When thine the falling shades unfold.

"Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds,

"When love has fill'd his heart with cares,