r 326 J 
[May 1, 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
SPRING. 
| gti Spring! I hail thy happy hours, 
WD = Delight is in thy train; 
And Beanty, deck’d with early flow’rs, 
Attends thee o’er the plain. 
At thy command, the twitting bird 
Tries each forgotten note, 
Feebly at first, then louder heard, 
He swells his little throat. 
The bursting bud, of lively green, 
Puts forth its pensile form ; 
The hardy flowret, too, is seen, 
Uncheck’d by sweeping storm. 
The rill, that late in turbid waves 
High o’er its banks had swept, 
Pellucid now, those banks it laves, 
As tho’ the streamlet slept. 
The frolic lamb, in gambols wild, 
Enjoys his op‘ning life; 
Nor dreams, amid a scene so mild, 
Of Man's blood-seeking knife. 
Fen Man forgets his sorrow now, 
And seeks the sylvan scene ; 
Snatches a wild-rose from its bough, 
Or wreathes a chaplet,green. 
Tis mine, on each returning year, 
A wreath of verse to bring, 
When thou return’st the world to cheer ; 
‘Thus then I hail thee, Spring! 
J. M. Lacey. 
— 
‘TIS HER I LOVE! 
Where lonely on the desert shore 
Is heard the sullen ocean’s roar, 
And tangled sea-weed, wild around, 
Spreads o’er the rocky, wave-wash’d ground, 
Tf on a ledge supine reclin’d, 
I sooth to peace a pensive mind, 
What secret spell will have the pow'r 
'To charm the cheerless, ling'ring hour, 
'To wake to joy, and transports move? 
The thought of one,—’tis her I love! 
Low in the glen, remote, unseen, 
Where branches weave a sylvan screen, 
And the torrent of the hill 
Devious strays in many a rill— 
And nought is heard, so stilly round, 
But the waters babbling sound ; 
When there I listless muse the hour, 
What secret spell can have the pow’r : 
To wake to joy, and transports move? 
The thought of one—tis her I love! 
The tow’ring cliff! whose ample form 
Fronts the wild surge—defies the storm— 
Where the sea-mew forms her nest ! 
The beetling brow the clouds invest— 
The dizzy steep, in airy height, 
Where the sea-bird wheels her flight ! 
When there I hail eve’s golden hour, 
What secret spell will have the pow’r 
Fo wake to joy, and transports move ? 
‘The thought of one—'tis her I love! 
Rocks, woodland haunts, deep shadowy 
groves, 
The sylvan scenes of rustic loves, 
Dear are thy paths, where oft I’ve stray’d, 
And woo'd at eve a dark-ey’d maid! 
The silent shore, the lowly dell,— 
O scenes belov’d, you well can tell, 
When with thee I muse the hour, 
What secret spell can have the pow'r 
To wake to joy, and transports move? 
The thought of one—’tis her I love ! 
G. H. T. 
— a 
THE HERMITE’S ADDRESSE TO YOUTHE. 
Written in the Gardens of the Vauxhall at 
Bath, 1777, 
Say, gentle youthe, that tread’ st, untouch’d 
with care, 
Where Nature hath so guerdon’d Bathe’s 
gay scene, {aire, 
Fedde with the songe that. dauncethi in the 
’Midst fairest wealth of Flora’s magazine; 
Hath eye or eare yet founde, thine steppes 
to blesse, 
That germ of life, yclep’d true happiness? 
With beautie restes she not,nor woo tolighte 
Her hallowde taper at proude honour’s 
flame, 
Nor Circe’s cuppe doth crewne, nor 
comes in flighte 
Upon tl’ Icarian winge of bablinge fame. 
Not shrine of golde doth this fair sainte 
embower, [shower. 
She glides from heaven, but not in Danae’s 
Go blossome, wanton, in such joyous aire, 
But ah! eftsoone thy buxom blasteiso’er! 
When the sleek pate shall grow far ’bove 
its haire, [lore, 
And creeping age shall reape this piteous 
To broode o’er follie, and with me confesse, 
Earth’s flatt’ringe daintics prove but 
sweet distresse. 
Tue OLve HERMITE, 
—$— 
SWEET-LOOKING, 
From Chaucer’s “ Romaunt of the Rose,” 
page 38, l. 918. 
Now Love was in his witching trim, 
He had a single youth with him, 
Who many a lady’s heart enthrall’d, 
And this youth was Sweet-looking call'd ; 
And, while the enchanting couples dane’d, 
He stood, and at them fondly glane'd, 
Holding two bows which he had wrought 
‘Yo operate on human thought : 
One was a knotty crooked stick, 
Cut from the thorny savourwick, 
Black asa berry, ora sloe, 
And it seem’d fit for lover’s woe, 
The other—of a plant, without 
A blemish ora knot about, 
And it was smooth, and painted much 
Wirth Nature’s hand, and Fancy’s touch, 
With young men glad, and ladies light, 
Array'd in golden robes and white. 
These 
