SECTION XVII.

On an Infant.

To the dark and silent tomb,
Soon I hasted from the womb:
Scarce the dawn of life began,
Ere I measur'd out my span.

2

I no smiling pleasures knew;
I no gay delights could view:
Joyless sojourner was I,
Only born to weep and die.-
3

Happy infant, early bless'd!
Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest;
Early rescu'd from the cares,
Which increase with growing years.

4

No delights are worth thy stay,
Smiling as they seem, and gay;
Short and sickly are they all,.
Hardly tasted ere they pall.

5

All our gayety is vain,
All our laughter is but pain;
Lasting only, and divine,
Is an innocence like thine.

SECTION XVIII.

The Cuckoo.

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the spring!
Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear :
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flow'rs,
When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs..

The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood,
To pull the flow'rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st the vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bow'r, is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee ;

We'd make, with social wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring.

SECTION XIX.

Day. A pastoral in three parts.

MORNING.

IN the barn the tenant cock,
Close to Partlet perch'd on high,
Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock !)
Jocund that the morning's nigh.

LOGAN.

Swiftly, from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire;
And the peeping sun-beam, now

Paints with gold the village spire.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night;
And the lark to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherds sight.
From the low-roof'd cottage ridge,

See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arched bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine-tree's waving top

Gently greets the morning gale;
Kidlings, now, begin to crop

Daisies, on the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done,)
Now the busy bee's employ'd,

Sipping dew before the sun.
Trickling through the crevic'd rock,

Where the limpid stream distils,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock,

When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

Colin's for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious-while the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

Sweet-O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossom'd spray!
Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

FERVID on the glitt'ring flood,
Now the noontide radiance glows:
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rose,

By the brook the shepherd dines,

From the fierce meridian heat, Shelter'd by the branching pines,. Pendant o'er his grassy seat.

Now the flock forsakes the glade,
Where uncheck'd the sun-beams fall,
Sure to find a pleasing shade,
By the ivy'd abbey wall.

Echo, in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound,

Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland,

Where the streamlet wanders cool;; Or with languid silence stand Midway in the maishy pool.

But, from mountain, dell or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs;
Fearful lest the noontide beam

Scorch its soft, its silken wings.
Not a leaf has leave to stir,

Nature's lull'd-serene-and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur,

Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh descending show'r, Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises ev'ry fainting flow'r.

Now the hill-the hedge-are green, Now the warblers' throats in tune; Blithesome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Noon!

EVENING.

O'ER the heath the heifer strays
Free (the furrow'd task is done ;)
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnish'd by the setting sun.

Now he sets behind the hill,

Sinking from a golden sky? Can the pencil's mimic skill

Copy the refulgent dye?

Trudging as the ploughmen go,

(To the smoaking hamlet bound,) Giant-like their shadows grow

Lengthen'd o'er the level ground.

Where the rising forest spreads

Shelter for the lordly dome! To their high-built airy beds,

See the rooks returning home!

As the lark, with vary'd tune,

Carols to the ev'ning loud: Mark the mild resplendent moon, Breaking through a parted cloud!

Now the hermit howlet peeps

From the barn or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake.

As the trout in speckled pride,
Playful from its bosom springs;
To the banks a ruffled tide
Verges in successive rings.