Or basking in the sunny beam,
Or gazing in the rippling stream,
And oft, unseen by mortal eye,
Like modest merit, bloom and die.--

How sweet to view the scene around,
To catch each rural sight and sound,
Sitting on some aged stone,

Grey with years, and moss o'ergrown,
Or 'neath the hawthorn on the hill,
Till musing Fancy has her fill,
Glad to hear the welcome note
Of the cuckoo's mellow throat,-
Surest harbinger of Spring,-
And the swallows' twittering,
Whilst they skim along the grass,
Or the rushy, dank morass!
But how passing sweet to hear
Wood-notes swelling through the air,
Whilst the merry birds are singing,
And the echoing groves are ringing,
Hills, and dales, and woods around,
With the full melodious sound!
Then to muse upon the scene,
Clad in freshest garb of green,
Over which the wandering eye
Roams in pleasing revery,—
Roams at will, and never tires,

Such sweet thoughts the scene inspires.-
O Spring! thou hast such charms for me
Of heart-felt, sweet reality,-

So powerful in thy loveliness,

And lovely in thy power to bless,
Thee, thee I woo to be my muse,
For thou canst o'er my soul diffuse

A sense of joys more true and bright
Than ever charm'd the Poet's sight,
When, on imagination's wings,

He dreams unutterable things:

Yes, thou art all that's bright and fair, The resurrection of the year;

Thou Nature wak'st to life and bloom From winter's cold and icy tomb,

And flowers, new-risen from the dead, Their new-spun robes of beauty spread, Deck'd in the rainbow's thousand dyes, And breathe sweet incense to the skies; Thou tun'st the birds' melodious voice, And mak'st all living things rejoice; And memory wak'st, as from a dream, And fond associations teem,

In bright succession o'er me stealing, Pleasures of the past revealing,Scenes and days of other years, Youthful joys, and hopes, and fears,Which long in death had buried lain, But now revive, and bloom again.

AH! who can speak a mother's joy
When gazing on her first-born boy;
The thoughts and feelings of her soul,
That, mingling, gush without control,
Rapid, and deep, and wildly free,
In one full tide of ecstacy;
Whilst in her raptur'd, beaming face
Each deep emotion you may trace,
As tears and smiles together play,
Like April-showers on a sunny day?
For 't is the heart's sweet time of spring,
When all fond hopes are blossoming,
And budding joys, which she alone
Can truly feel as all her own.

Behold her little cherub there,
With ruby lips, and forehead fair,
With sunny, smiling, dimpled cheek,
And eyes that eloquently speak,-
Bright sparkling eyes of heavenly blue,
Whose infant gaze would read you through,-
Where may be seen the living light
Of innate genius beaming bright,
And in his sweet, expressive face
The dawn of mind and noble grace :
So fair a child, in sooth, might seem
The spirit of some lovely dream,-

A cherub which had gone astray

In wand'ring thro' Heaven's pathless way,
Or sent from some bright realm above
To earth, on embassy of love.--
To see so fair a piece of earth

You well might doubt its mortal birth,
But that upon its mother's knee,
Instinct with life, and joy, and glee,
He laughs, and plays his mimic wiles,

In "nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles,"
And nestles in his mother's breast,

Like little bird in mossy nest,

Or firmly grasps a lock of hair,

As if the prize he 'd rudely tear,

And seems, whilst round her neck he clings,
Like Cupid's self without his wings.

Ah! then she clasps him to her heart,
As if from thence he ne'er should part,
And, gazing in his deep blue eyes,
She reads a thousand mysteries,
And sees within their depths of blue
His infant spirit gleaming through,

And marks the lights and shades that chase
Each other o'er his smiling face,

As in each glance, and look intense,
Beams forth the bright intelligence:
These are the joys the mother shares,
That hallow all her anxious cares,
Which else would blight the flowers of joy,
That bloom in lovely Infancy.

O! COME with me, my own true love!

Nor sigh to bid this Isle farewell;

For soon thy fairy foot shall rove

Thro' fields where ne'er a snow-show'r fell.

O'er summer seas our bark will glide,
And bear us to that blissful shore,
Where thou wilt be the fondest bride,

And care thou 'lt feel, or fear, no more.

I'll form thee bowers of sunny flow'rs,
Beneath the mango's shady tree;
And, all day long, some sweet bird's song
Shall be a hymn of rest for thee.

The rich banana shall be thine,

The orange, with its snow-white bloom,

The guava, and the golden pine,
And every flower of sweet perfume.

An Indian maid shall tend on thee,

To cool thy brow, and braid thy hair;

The lady of the land thou 'lt be,

And reign the Queen of Beauty there.