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Te dea, te fugiunt venti, te nubila cæli,
Adventumque tuum; tibi fuaveis dædala tellus
Submittit flores; tibi rident æquora ponti ;
Placatumque nitet diffufo lumine cælum.



ENCE iron-scepter'd winter, hafte

To des'late Ruffian waste !
Where far remote from man's resort

Thou hold'st thy joyless court ;
Where ever beat by storms and show'rs
Thy gloomy Gothic castle tow'rs;
Amid whose howling ifles and halls,
Where no gay sun-beam paints the walls,
On ebon throne, thou lov'st to shroud,
Thy hoary head in fable cloud.


E’n now,

before the sun's soft heat, Sullen I see thy train retreat : EURUS, with lightning in his hands, That on a tiger mounted stands ; High-figur'd on whose robe are shewn Shipwrecks, and villages o'erthrown : Grim Auster, dropping all with dew, And clad in vest of watchet hue: Next cold, like Zemblan favage drest, Who boldly bares his hardy breast : With him his brother, fur-clad FROST, His robe with icicles emboft.

Winter farewell! thy forests hoar, Thy frozen floods delight no more ; Farewell the fields, fo bare and wild ! But come thou rose-cheek'd cherub mild, Sweetest SUMMER! haste thee here, Once more to crown the gladden'd year. Thee APRIL blythe, as long of yore Bermudas' yales he frolick'd o'er, (Such is his wont, at early prime, When the soft boughs begin to climb) To gather balm of choiceft dews, And patterns

fair of various hues, With which to paint in changeful dye, The vernal year's embroidery ; To cull the essence of rich smells In which to dip his blooming bells;


Thee, as he rov'd with genial feet,
He found an infant, smiling sweet ;
Where a tall citron's boughs imbrown'd
The green lap of the graffy ground.
There long upon a roseate bed,
Thee with rare nectarine fruits he fed ;
Till soon beneath his foft'ring care,
You bloom'd a goddess debonair ;
And last he gave the blessed ille
Aye to be sway'd beneath thy smile.

Hafte thee nymph! and hand in hand,
With thee bring a buxom band;
Ering fantastic-footed Joy,
With Sport that yellow-tressed boy,
Lead Health that loves, in early dawn
To meet the milk-maid in the lawn :
Lead Pleasure, rural nymph, and Peace.
Meek cottage loving shepherdess !
Bring the dear Muse, that loves to lean
On river-margins, molly green.
But who is she, that bears thy train,
Pacing light the velvet plain ?
The pale pink crowns her auburn hair,
Her tresses flow with pastral air ;
Tis May the Grace-confelt she stands
By branch of hawthorn in her hands :
Lo! near her trip the light-foot Dews
Their wings all dipt in iris-hues ;

With whom lascivious Zephyrs play,
And paint with pansies all the way.

Oft when thy season, sweetest Queen,
Has dreft the groves in livery green ;
When in each fair and fertile field
Beauty begins her bow'r to build ;
While Evening, veil'd in shadows brown,
Puts her matron-mantle on,
And mists in spreading fteams convey
More fre!h the fumes of new-shorn hay ;
Then, Goddess, guide my gladsome feet
Contemplation hoar to meet,
As slow he winds his museful way,
O'er the soft marge of filver Tay:
Or near thy brook, O fylvan Jed!
Where first, by meek-ey'd Nature led,
Thomson the rural Muses woo'd
In numbers wild, of Dorian mood.
While thro' the dusk but dimly seen,
Sweet evening objects intervene :
His wattled cotes the shepherd plants,
Beneath her elm the milk-maid chants.
And now the labourer I meet,
The low mist gathering at his feet :
Nor wants there fragrance all the while,
My foothed fenses to beguile :
Nor tangled wood-bines balmy bloom,
Nor dewy grass, to breathe perfume:

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Nor lowly wild-thyme's spicy sweet
To bathe in dew my roving feet :
Nor wants there note of Philomel,
Nor sound of distant-tinkling bell:
Nor lowings faint of herds remote ;
Nor mastiff's bark from lowly cott :
Rustle the breezes lightly born
Or deep-embattellid ears of corn :
Round ancient elm, with humming noise,
Beetles in thickening swarms rejoice.
Meantime, what mingling dies invest
The golden chambers of the West !
That all allant the village tow'r
A mild reflected radiance pour,
While, with th' obliquely-streaming rays
Far seen it's arched windows blaze :
While the tall grove's green top is dight
In russet hues, and gleams of light:
So that the soft scene by degrees
Bathes my blythe heart in extasies;
And Fancy to my ravish'd fight
Frames ever-varying visions bright;
Like those her MILTON wont to dream,
As by the pale moon's cloudless gleam,
He roy'd to hear the bird of woe,
Or found of Curfeu swinging flow.
Till from the path I fondly stray
In museings lapt, and lose my way;

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