How shall I now your wonted aid implore;
Where seek your footsteps on this savage shore,

Whose ruder echoes ne'er were taught to bear
The poet's numbers or the lover's care?

Yet here, for ever here, your bard must dwell,
Who sung of sports and tender loves so well.

Here must he live :-But when he yields his breath,

O let him not be exiled even in death!

Lest mixed with Scythian shades, a Roman ghost

Wander on this inhospitable coast.

Cæsar no more shall urge a wretch's doom;

The bolt of Jove pursues not in the tomb.

To thee, dear wife, some friend with pious care

All that of Ovid then remains shall bear;
Then wilt thou weep to see me so return,
And with fond passion clasp my silent urn.
O check thy grief, that tender bosom spare,
Hurt not thy cheeks, nor soil thy flowing hair.

Press the pale marble with thy lips, and give One precious tear, and bid my memory live: The silent dust shall glow at thy command,

And the warm ashes feel thy pious hand.

TO A LADY.

WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS.

... tibi lilia plenis

VIRGIL.

Ecce ferunt nymphæ calathis.

FLOWERS to the fair: To you these flowers I bring,

And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers, sweet and gay and delicate like you,
Emblems of innocence and beauty too.

With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which Nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,

The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows;
But this soft family, to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone :

Gay without toil, and lovely without art,

They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart.

Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these,

Your best, your sweetest empire is—to please.

ODE TO SPRING.

SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire,

Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring!

Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crowned;

From the green islands of eternal youth,

Crowned with fresh blooms and ever springing shade,

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,

Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,-
And through the stormy deep

Breathe thine own tender calm.