Lo! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,

Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year! The attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasures as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude or 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 ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting berds repose!
Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring,

And float amid the liquid noon :
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gayly-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of Man ;
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colors dressed;
Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

SILENCE of slumber, how profound,

Save breathings from each shrouded bed! The place to me is holy ground,

A sepulchre of living-dead.
The fire's lone flick'ring flame is shed
O'er each pale face, that sees reveal'd
A loveliness from daylight hid-
The radiant realms of bliss unveil'd.

As the archangel, veiling, bends
Before the uncreated Light,
So here, each fringed eyelid lends
A shade to glory, all too bright
For mortal eye. Oh, solemn sight!
To gaze on those who gaze on heaven-
To feel as if a parent's right
Had ceased, and all to God been given.

No consciousness my presence brings:

All, saint-like, resting on their bedThe group that in the day-time springs Around a father, fond and glad : The myst'ry makes my spirit sad, Unnoticed, unsaluted, lorn;

The scene might drive a parent mad, But for the thought of merry morn.

Cheer'd by this hope, I calmly now

Can walk around from bier to bier, And read upon each marble brow The innocence engraven there. Sleep on, sleep on, my children dear! Still may these dreams of bliss be given, And after all your slumbers here, May your awak'ning be in heaven!