Knd so, when misery's storm doth lour,
As poortith pours the pitiless shower,
É'en Virtue sinks beneath its power,
Fa's, like the wan scythe smitten flower,
To death a prey.
But he, who hears the good man's prayer,
To thy sma' cry shall bend his ear,
For thou wert aye beneath his care
And did his kind protection share,
AH! why, unfeeling Winter, why
Still flags thy torpid wing?
Fly, melancholy Season, fly
And yield the year to Spring.
Spring, the young cherubim of love,
An exile in disgrace,-
Flits o'er the scene, like Noah's dove,
Nor finds a resting place.
When on the mountain's azure peak,
Alights her fairy form,
Cold blows the wind,-and dark and bleak,
Around her rolls the storm.
If to the valley she repair,
For shelter and defence,
Thy wrath pursues the mourner there,
And drives her, weeping, thence.
She seeks the brook-the faithless brook,
Of her unmindful grown,
Feels the chill magick of thy look,
And lingers into stone.
She woos her embryo-flowers, in vain,
To rear their infant heads;
-Deaf to her voice, her flowers remain
Enchanted in their beds.
In vain she bids the trees expand
Their green luxuriant charms;
-Bare in the wilderness they stand,
And stretch their withering arms.
Her favourite birds, in feeble notes,
Lament thy long delay;
And strain their little stammering throats,
To charm thy rage away.
Ah! why, usurping Winter, why
Still flags thy frozen wing? Fly, unrelenting tyrant, fly
And yield the year to Spring!
TO A BUTTERFLY IN A WINDOW.
BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.
ESCAPED thy place of wintry rest,
And in the brightest colours drest,
Thy new-born wings prepar'd for flight,
Ah! do not, butterfly, in vain
Thus flutter on the crystal pane,
But go! and soar to life and light.
High in the buoyant summer gale,
Through cloudless ether thou may'st sail,
Or rest among the fairest flowers;
To meet thy winnowing friends may'st speed,
Or at thy choice luxurious feed-
In woodlands wild, or garden bowers.
Beneath some leaf of ample shade
Thy pearly eggs shall then be laid,
Small rudiments of many a fly;
Whilst thou, thy frail existence past,
Shalt shudder in the chilly blast
And fold thy painted wings and dies.
Soon fleets thy transient life away;
Yet, short as is thy vital day,
Like flowers that form thy fragrant food,
Thou, poor ephemeron, shalt have filled,
The little space thy Maker willed,
And all thou knowest of life be good.
TO A REDBREAST,
THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.
By James Grahame.
FROM Snowy plains, and icy sprays,
From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast :—
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing,
That note, that summer note I know;
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,-
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still, with thy song, those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach my view
No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Thou'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou❜lt learn to sip the sparkling juice
And when (our short collation o'er)
Some favourite volume I explore,
Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page,
Unchecked, shall fit o'er VIRGIL's groves,
Or flutter 'mid TIBULLUS' loves.
Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells, 'tis spring,
And when the Thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
I'll set thee free to join the throng.
TO HIS MISTRESS.
[FROM POEMS BY JAMES SHIRLEY. 1546.]
I WOULD the God of Love would die,
And give his bow and shafts to me,
I ask no other legacy.
This happy fate I then would prove,
That since thy heart I cannot move,
I'd cure, and kill my own with love.
Yet why should I so cruel be,
To kill myself with loving thee,
And thou a tyrant still to me?
Perhaps could thou affection shew
To me, I should not love thee so,
And that would be my medicine too.
|