Stothard del.

There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life.

Elegy I.

Blake so

X

ELEGY I.

Written at the APPROACH of SPRING.

ERN Winter hence with all his train removes

STERN

And cheerful skies and limpid ftreams are feen; Thick-fprouting foliage decorates the groves; Reviving herbage clothes the fields with green.

Yet lovelier fcenes th' approaching months prepare;
Kind Spring's full bounty foon will be display'd;
The fimile of beauty ev'ry vale fhall wear;
The voice of fong enliven ev'ry shade,

O Fancy,

O Fancy, paint not coming days too fair!

Oft for the prospects fprightly May should yield, Rain-pouring clouds have darken'd all the air,

Or fnows untimely whiten'd o'er the field:

But fhould kind Spring her wonted bounty fhow'r,
The smile of beauty, and the voice of fong;
If gloomy thought the human mind o'erpower,
Ev'n vernal hours glide unenjoy'd along.

I fhun the scenes where madd'ning paffion raves, Where Pride and Folly high dominion hold, And unrelenting Avarice drives her flaves

O'er proftrate Virtue in purfuit of gold.

The graffy lane, the wood-furrounded field,
The rude stone fence with fragrant wall-flow'rs gay,
The clay-built cot, to me more pleasure yield

Than all the pomp imperial domes display:

And yet even here, amid thefe fecret fhades,
These fimple scenes of unreprov'd delight,
Affliction's iron hand my breast invades,

And Death's dread dart is ever in my fight.

While genial funs to genial fhow'rs fucceed
(The air all mildness, and the earth all bloom);
While herds and flocks range fportive o'er the mead,
Crop the sweet herb, and fnuff the rich perfume;

O why alone to hapless man deny'd

To taste the blifs inferior beings boaft?

O why this fate, that fear and pain divide
His few short hours on earth's delightful coaft?

Ah cease-no more of Providence complain!

'Tis fenfe of guilt that wakes the mind to woe, Gives force to fear, adds energy to pain,

And palls each joy by Heav'n indulg'd below:

Why

Why elfe the filing infant-train so bleft,

Ere ill propenfion ripens into fin,

Ere wild defire inflames the youthful breast,

And dear-bought knowledge ends the peace within?

As to the bleating tenants of the field,

As to the sportive warblers on the trees, To them their joys fincere the seasons yield, And all their days and all their profpects please;

Such mine, when firft, from London's crowded streets, Rov'd my young steps to Surry'swood-crown'd hills, O'er newblown meads that breath'd a thoufand fweets,

By fhady coverts and by chrystal rills.

O happy hours, beyond recov'ry fled!

What share I now that can your lofs repay,

Whileo'er mymind thefe glooms of thought arespread,

And veil the light of life's meridian ray?