ODE TO THE FIRST OF APRIL.

WITH dalliance rude young Zephyr wooes
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boisterous boy the fair denies,
Or with a scornful smile complies.

Mindful of disaster past,

And shrinking at the northern blast,
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning hoar, and evening chill;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's southern bound:
Scarce a sickly straggling flower,
Decks the rough castle's rifted tower:
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps;
O'er the fields of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom:
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale.
While from the shrubbery's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze
Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone,
Every chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.

Scant along the ridgy land

The beans their new-born ranks expand:
The fresh-turn'd soil with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half-rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye displays
Weakly green its budding sprays.

The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the grey moor, on feeble wing,
The screaming plovers idly spring:
The butterfly, gay-painted soon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon:
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns, and flattering skies.

Fraught with a transient, frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark;
But when gleams the Sun again
O'er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery veil
Looks through the thin descending hail;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
'Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.

Where in venerable rows
Widely-waving oaks inclose
The moat of yonder antique hall,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.

Musing through the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark
How various greens in faint degrees
Tinge the tall groups of various trees;
While, careless of the changing year,
The pine cerulean, never sere,

Towers distinguish'd from the rest, And proudly vaunts her winter vest.

Within some whispering osier isle,
Where Glym's low banks neglected smile;
And each trim meadow still retains
The wintry torrent's oozy stains:
Beneath a willow, long forsook,
The fisher seeks his custom'd nook;
And bursting through the crackling sedge,
That crowns the current's cavern'd edge,
He startles from the bordering wood
The bashful wild-duck's early brood.

O'er the broad downs, a novel race,
Frisk the lambs with faltering pace,
And with eager bleatings fill
The foss that skirts the beacon'd hill.

His free-born vigor yet unbroke To lordly man's usurping yoke, The bounding colt forgets to play, Basking beneath the noontide ray, And stretch'd among the daisies pied Of a green dingle's sloping side: While far beneath, where Nature spreads Her boundless length of level meads, In loose luxuriance taught to stray, A thousand tumbling rills inlay With silver veins the vale, or pass Redundant through the sparkling grass. Yet, in these presages rude, 'Midst her pensive solitude, Fancy, with prophetic glance, Sees the teeming months advance; The field, the forest, green and gay, The dappled slope, the tedded hay; Sees the reddening orchard blow, The harvest wave, the vintage flow; Sees June unfold his glossy robe Of thousand hues o'er all the globe; Sees Ceres grasp her crown of corn, And plenty load her ample horn.

The radiant range of shield and lance Down Damascus' hills advance:

From Sion's turrets as afar

Ye ken the march of Europe's war!
Saladin, thou paynim king,
From Albion's isle revenge we bring!
On Acon's spiry citadel,

Though to the gale thy banners swell,
Pictur'd with the silver Moon;
England shall end thy glory soon!
In vain, to break our firm array,
Thy brazen drums hoarse discord bray:
Those sounds our rising fury fan:
English Richard in the van,
On to victory we go,

A vaunting infidel the foe."

Blondel led the tuneful band,
And swept the wire with glowing hand,
Cyprus, from her rocky mound,
And Crete, with piny verdure crown'd,
Far along the smiling main
Echoed the prophetic strain.

Soon we kiss'd the sacred earth
That gave a murder'd Savior birth;
Then with ardor fresh endu'd,
Thus the solemn song renew'd.

"Lo, the toilsome voyage past, Heaven's favor'd hills appear at last! Object of our holy vow, We tread the Tyrian valleys now. From Carmel's almond-shaded steep We feel the cheering fragrance creep: O'er Engaddi's shrubs of balm Waves the date-empurpled palm : See Lebanon's aspiring head Wide his immortal umbrage spread! Hail, Calvary, thou mountain hoar, Wet with our Redeemer's gore! Ye trampled tombs, ye fanes forlorn, Ye stones, by tears of pilgrims worn; Your ravish'd honors to restore, Fearless we climb this hostile shore! And thou, the sepulchre of God; By mocking Pagans rudely trod, Bereft of every awful rite,

And quench'd thy lamps that beam'd so bright;

For thee, from Britain's distant coast,
Lo, Richard leads his faithful host!
Aloft in his heroic hand,
Blazing like the beacon's brand,
O'er the far-affrighted fields,
Resistless Kaliburn* he wields.
Proud Saracen, pollute no more
The shrines by martyrs built of yore!
From each wild mountain's trackless crown
In vain thy gloomy castles frown:
Thy battering engines, huge and high,
In vain our steel-clad steeds defy;
And, rolling in terrific state,
On giant-wheels harsh thunders grate.
When eve has hush'd the buzzing camp,
Amid the moonlight vapors damp,
Thy necromantic forms, in vain,
Haunt us on the tented plain:

We bid the spectre-shapes avaunt,
Ashtaroth, and Termagaunt!t
With many a demon, pale of hue,
Doom'd to drink the bitter dew,
That drops from Macon's sooty tree,
'Mid the dread grove of ebony.
Nor magic charms, nor fiends of Hell,
The Christian's holy courage quell.

Salem, in ancient majesty
Arise, and lift thee to the sky!

Soon on thy battlements divine
Shall wave the badge of Constantine.
Ye barons, to the Sun unfold

Our cross with crimson wove and gold!"

THE

PROGRESS OF DISCONTENT.

WHEN now mature in classic knowledge,
The joyful youth is sent to College,
His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,
And thus, in form of humble suitor,
Bowing accosts a reverend tutor :
"Sir, I'm a Glo'stershire divine,
And this my eldest son of nine;
My wife's ambition and my own
Was that this child should wear a gown:
I'll warrant that his good behavior
Will justify your future favor;
And, for his parts, to tell the truth,
My son's a very forward youth;
Has Horace all by heart-you'd wonder-
And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder
If you'd examine-and admit him,

A scholarship would nicely fit him;
That he succeeds 'tis ten to one;
Your vote and interest, sir!"-"Tis done.
Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated,
Are with a scholarship completed:
A scholarship but half maintains,
And college-rules are heavy chains :
In garret dark he smokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns;
And now, intent on new designs,
Sighs for a fellowship-and fines.

When nine full tedious winters past, That utmost wish is crown'd at last : But the rich prize no sooner got, Again he quarrels with his lot: "These fellowships are pretty things, We live indeed like petty kings: But who can bear to waste his whole age Amid the dullness of a college, Debarr'd the common joys of life, And that prime bliss-a loving wife! O! what's a table richly spread, Without a woman at its head?

† Ashtaroth is mentioned by Milton as a general name of the Syrian deities: Par. Lost, i. 422. And Termagaant is the name given in the old romance to the god of the Saracens. See Percy's Relics, vol. i. p. 74.

Would some snug benefice but fall, Ye feasts, ye dinners! farewell all! To offices I'd bid adieu,

Of dean, vice præs.-of bursar too;
Come joys, that rural quiet yields,
Come, tythes, and house, and fruitful fields!"
Too fond of freedom and of ease
A patron's vanity to please,
Long-time he watches, and by stealth,
Each frail incumbent's doubtful health;
At length, and in his fortieth year,
A living drops-two hundred clear!
With breast elate beyond expression,
He hurries down to take possession,
With rapture views the sweet retreat-
"What a convenient house! how neat!
For fuel here's sufficient wood:

Pray God the cellars may be good!
The garden-that must be new-plann'd-
Shall these old-fashion'd yew-trees stand?
O'er yonder vacant plot shall rise
The flow'ry shrub of thousand dyes:-
Yon wall, that feels the southern ray,
Shall blush with ruddy fruitage gay:
While thick beneath its aspect warm
O'er well-rang'd hives the bees shall swarm,
From which, ere long, of golden gleam

Metheglin's luscious juice shall stream:

This awkward hut, o'ergrown with ivy, We'll alter to a modern privy:

Up yon green slope, of hazels trim,

An avenue so cool and dim

Shall to an arbor at the end,

In spite of gout, entice a friend.

My predecessor lov'd devotion-
But of a garden had no notion."
Continuing this fantastic farce on,
He now commences country parson.
To make his character entire,
He weds-a cousin of the 'squire,
Not over-weighty in the purse;
But many doctors have done worse:
And though she boasts no charms divine,
Yet she can carve and make birch-wine.

Thus fixt, content he taps his barrel,
Exhorts his neighbors not to quarrel;
Finds his church-wardens have discerning
Both in good liquor and good learning;
With tythes his barns replete he sees,
And chuckles o'er his surplice fees;
Studies to find out latent dues,
And regulates the state of pews;
Rides a sleek mare with purple housing,
To share the monthly club's carousing;
Of Oxford pranks facetious, tells,
And-but on Sundays-hears no bells;
Sends presents of his choicest fruit,
And prunes himself each sapless shoot;
Plants cauliflowers, and boasts to rear
The earliest melons of the year;
Thinks alteration charming work is,
Keeps Bantam cocks, and feeds his turkeys;
Builds in his copse a fav'rite bench,
And stores the pond with carp and tench.-
But ah! too soon his thoughtless breast
By cares domestic is opprest;

And a third butcher's bill, and brewing,
Threaten inevitable ruin:

For children fresh expenses yet, And Dicky now for school is fit.

Why did I sell my college life," He cries, "for benefice and wife? Return, ye days, when endless pleasure I found in reading, or in leisure! When calm around the common room I puff'd my daily pipe's perfume! Rode for a stomach, and inspected, At annual bottlings, corks selected : And din'd untax'd, untroubled, under The portrait of our pious founder! When impositions were supplied To light my pipe-or soothe my prideNo cares were then for forward peas, A yearly-longing wife to please; My thoughts no christ'ning dinners crost, No children cried for butter'd toast; And ev'ry night I went to bed, Without a modus in my head!"

Oh! trifling head, and fickle heart! Chagrin'd at whatsoe'er thou art; A dupe to follies yet untried, And sick of pleasures, scarce enjoy'd! Each prize possess'd, thy transport ceases, And in pursuit alone it pleases.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE,

AT ANSLEY HALL, IN WARWICKSHIRE.

BENEATH this stony roof reclin'd,
I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
And while, to shade my lowly cave,
Embowering elms their umbrage wave;
And while the maple dish is mine,
The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine;
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes, and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies:
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my custom'd round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount:
Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed hook,
Portray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs, crown'd with heavenly meed.
Then as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measur'd hymn;
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings bedropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create, Who but would smile at guilty state?

Who but would wish his holy lot In calm Oblivion's humble grot? Who but would cast his pomp away, To take my staff, and amice grey;* And to the world's tumultuous stage Prefer the blameless hermitage?

ODE.

THE HAMLET.

WRITTEN IN WHICHWOOD FOREST.

THE hinds how blest, who ne'er beguil'd To quit their hamlet's hawthorn wild; Nor haunt the crowd, nor tempt the main, For splendid care, and guilty gain!

When morning's twilight-tinctur'd beam Strikes their low thatch with slanting gleam, They rove abroad in ether blue, To dip the scythe in fragrant dew; The sheaf to bind, the beech to fell, That nodding shades a craggy dell.

'Midst gloomy glades, in warbles clear, Wild nature's sweetest notes they hear : On green untrodden banks they view The hyacinth's neglected hue:

In their lone haunts, and woodland rounds,
They spy the squirrel's airy bounds,
And startle from her ashen spray,
Across the glen, the screaming jay:
Each native charm their steps explore
Of Solitude's sequester'd store.

For them the Moon with cloudless ray
Mounts, to illume their homeward way:
Their weary spirits to relieve,
The meadow's incense breathe at eve.
No riot mars the simple fare,
That o'er a glimmering hearth they share :
But when the curfew's measur'd roar
Duly, the darkening valleys o'er,
Has echoed from the distant town,
They wish no beds of cygnet-down,
No trophied canopies, to close
Their drooping eyes in quick repose.

Their little sons, who spread the bloom Of health around the clay-built room, Or through the primros'd coppice stray, Or gambol in the new-mown hay; Or quaintly braid the cowslip twine, Or drive afield the tardy kine; Or hasten from the sultry hill

To loiter at the shady rill;
Or climb the tall pine's gloomy crest,
To rob the raven's ancient nest.

Their humble porch with honied flow'rs The curling wood bine's shade embow'rs: From the small garden's thymy mound Their bees in busy swarms resound: Nor fell Disease, before his time, Hastes to consume life's golden prime: But when their temples long have wore The silver crown of tresses hoar; As studious still calm peace to keep, Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.

* Grey clothing, from the Latin verb amicio, to clothe.

ODE SENT TO A FRIEND,

ON HIS LEAVING A FAVORITE VILLAGE IN

HAMPSHIRE.

АH mourn, thou lov'd retreat! No more
Shall classic steps thy scenes explore!
When morn's pale rays but faintly peep
O'er yonder oak-crown'd airy steep,
Who now shall climb its brows to view
The length of landscape, ever new,
Where Summer flings, in careless pride,
Her varied vesture far and wide?
Who mark, beneath, each village-charm,
Or grange, or elm-encircled farm:
The flinty dove-cote's crowded roof,
Watch'd by the kite that sails aloof:
The tufted pines, whose umbrage tall
Darkens the long-deserted hall:
The veteran beech, that on the plain
Collects at eve the playful train:
The cot that smokes with early fire,
The low-roof'd fane's embosom'd spire?
Who now shall indolently stray
Through the deep forest's tangled way;
Pleas'd at his custom'd task to find
The well-known hoary-tressed hind,
That toils with feeble hands to glean
Of wither'd boughs his pittance mean?
Who 'mid thy nooks of hazel sit,
Lost in some melancholy fit;
And listening to the raven's croak,
The distant flail, the falling oak?
Who, through the sun-shine and the shower.
Descry the rainbow-painted tower?
Who, wandering at return of May,
Catch the first cuckoo's vernal lay?
Who musing waste the summer hour,
Where high o'er-arching trees embower
The grassy lane, so rarely pac'd,
With azure flow'rets idly grac'd?
Unnotic'd now, at twilight's dawn
Returning reapers cross the lawn;
Nor fond attention loves to note
The wether's bell from folds remote:
While, own'd by no poetic eye,
Thy pensive evenings shade the sky!

For lo! the Bard who rapture found
In every rural sight or sound;
Whose genius, warm, and judgment chaste,
No charm of genuine nature pass'd;
Who felt the Muse's purest fires,
Far from thy favor'd haunt retires;
Who peopled all thy vocal bowers
With shadowy shapes, and airy powers.

Behold, a dread repose resumes,
As erst, thy sad sequester'd glooms!
From the deep dell, where shaggy roots
Fringe the rough brink with wreathed shoots,
Th' unwilling genius flies forlorn,
His primrose chaplet rudely torn.
With hollow shriek the nymphs forsake
The pathless copse and hedge-row brake:
Where the delv'd mountains headlong side
Its chalky entrails opens wide,

On the green summit, ambush'd high,
No longer Echo loves to lie.

No pearl-crown'd maids with wily look,
Rise beckoning from the reedy brook.