Her aspect sour and stern ungracious look
With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck :
Chilled at her touch its mouth it slowly closed,
And in long silence all its griefs reposed:

Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground,
And the air vibrates with the silver sound.

ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF THE

SPRING 1771.

Æstatem increpitans seram, Zephyrosque morantes.

VIRGIL.

IN vain the sprightly sun renews his course,

Climbs up the' ascending signs and leads the day, While long embattled clouds repel his force,

And lazy vapours choke the golden ray.

In vain the Spring proclaims the new-born year;

No flowers beneath her lingering footsteps spring, No rosy garland binds her flowing hair,

And in her train no feathered warblers sing;

Her opening breast is stained with frequent showers,

Her streaming tresses bathed in chilling dews;

And sad before her move the pensive Hours,

Whose flagging wings no breathing sweets diffuse.

Like some lone pilgrim clad in mournful weed, Whose wounded bosom drinks her falling tears, On whose pale cheek relentless sorrows feed, Whose dreary way no sprightly carol cheers.

Not thus she breathed on Arno's purple shore,
And called the Tuscan Muses to her bowers;
Not this the robe in Enna's vale she wore,
When Ceres' daughter filled her lap with flowers.

Clouds behind clouds in long succession rise, And heavy snows oppress the springing green; The dazzling waste fatigues the aching eyes, And Fancy droops beneath the' unvaried scene.

Indulgent Nature, loose this frozen zone;

Through opening skies let genial sunbeams play; Dissolving snows shall their glad impulse own, And melt upon the bosom of the May.

VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE.

Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus, imminente Luna.

HORAT.

Now the moonbeam's trembling lustre
Silvers o'er the dewy green,

And in soft and shadowy colours

Sweetly paints the chequered scene.

Here between the opening branches

Streams a flood of softened light;

There the thick and twisted foliage

Spreads the browner gloom of night.

This is sure the haunt of fairies,

In yon cool alcove they play;

Care can never cross the threshold,Care was only made for day.

Far from hence be noisy Clamour, Sick Disgust and anxious Fear; Pining Grief and wasting Anguish Never keep their vigils here.

Tell no tales of sheeted spectres
Rising from the quiet tomb;

Fairer forms this cell shall visit,

Brighter visions gild the gloom.

Choral songs and sprightly voices Echo from her cell shall call ; Sweeter, sweeter than the murmur

Of the distant waterfall.