Near the chequer'd, lonely grove, Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love! Lightly o'er the dewy way. Phoebus drives his burning car Other pleasures give them pain, Lovers all but love disdain. And Love, the life of living things, Love waves his torch, and clasps his wings, And loud and wide thy praises sings, Thou merry month of May! HEBER. ODE ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great? Still is the toiling hand of Care : Eager to taste the honied spring, Some lightly o'er the current skim, To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man; And they that creep, and they that fly, Alike the Busy and the Gay In Fortune's varying colours drest : Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive, kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone— We frolic while 'tis May. GRAY. |