Ode to Spring.

Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child, delightful Spring!
Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crowned;

From the green islands of eternal youth-
Crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade
Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice,

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favoured youth

That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;

And call those winds, which through the whispering boughs With warm and pleasant breath

Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale;

And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms.

O nymph. approach! while yet the temperate Sun
With bashful forehead, through the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,

And with chaste kisses woos

The Earth's fair bosom; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade
Protects thy modest blooms

From his severer blaze.

Sweet is thy reign, but short: the red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.

Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell;
For oh! not all that Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,

Can aught for thee atone,

Fair Spring! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart
Each joy and new-born hope

With softest influence breathes.

To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers.
Flowers to the fair; to you these flowers I bring,
And strive to greet you with an earlier spring.
Flowers sweet and gay, and delicate like you;
Emblems of innocence, and beauty too.
With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair,
And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear.
Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew,
In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.
To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned;
The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind,
The tougher yew repels invading foes,
And the tall pine for future navies grows:
But this soft family to cares unknown,
Were born for pleasure and delight alone.
Gay without toil, and lovely without art,
They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart.
Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these;
Your best, your sweetest empire is to please.

Hymn to Content,

Natura beatos

Omnibus esse dedit, si quis cognoverit uti.-CLAUDIAN.

O thou, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth the unaltered brow.

O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,-
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide

The temperate joys in even-tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offered blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to wait:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek submissive head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.

But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway?
When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.

MRS. OPIE-MRS. HUNTER-MRS. GRANT-MRS. TIGHE.

MRS. AMELIA OPIE 1769–1853) was the daughter of a popular physician, Dr. Alderson, of Norwich, and widow of John Opie, the celebrated artist. In 1802 she published a volume of miscellaneous She is poems, characterized by a simple and placid tenderness. more celebrated for her novels to be afterwards noticed-and for

her general literary merits and association with all the eminent persons of her day.-MRS. ANNE HUNTER (1742-1821) was a retired but highly accomplished lady, sister of Sir Everard Home, and wife of John Hunter, the celebrated surgeon. Having written several copies of verses, which were extensively circulated, and some songs that even Hayden had married to immortal music, Mrs. Hunter was induced, in 1806, to collect her pieces and commit them to the press.— MRS. ANNE GRANT (1755-1838) in 1803 published a volume of miscellaneous poems, chiefly in illustration of the people and manners of the Scottish Highlands. She was widow of the minister of Laggan in Inverness-shire. Mrs. Grant was author of several interesting prose works. She wrote Letters from the Mountains,' giving a description of Highland scenery and manners, with which she was conversant from her residence in the country; also Memoirs of an American Lady' (1810); and Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders,' which appeared in 1811. The writings of this lady display a lively and observant fancy, and considerable powers of landscape-painting. They first drew attention to the more striking and romantic features of the Scottish Highlands, afterwards so fertile a theme for the genius of Scott.

.

An Irish poetess, MRS. MARY TIGHE (1773-1810), evinced a more passionate and refined_imagination than any of her tuneful sisterhood. Her poem of Psyche,' founded on the classic fable related by Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul, is characterised by a graceful voluptuousness and brilliancy of colouring rarely excelled. It is in six cantos, and wants only a little more concentration of style and description to be one of the best poems of the period. It was privately printed in 1805, and after the death of the authoress, reprinted, with the addition of other poems, in 1811. Mrs. Tighe was daughter of the Rev. W. Blackford, county of Wicklow, and was married to Henry Tighe, M. P., county of Wicklow. Her history seems to be little known, unless to private friends; but her early death, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, in his beautiful lyric

I saw thy form in youthful prime.

We subjoin some selections from the works of each of the above ladies:

The Orphan Boy's Tale.-From Mrs. Opie's Poems.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale;
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake;

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came
Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home, my mother sought;
She could not bear to see my joy;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor orphan boy.

Song.-From the same.

Song.-From the same.

Those accents which, though heard no To guard the liquid fires that shine,

The Death-song, written for and adapted to, an Original Indian Air.—

From the same.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low,
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone,
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son;
Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain;
And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain.

The Lot of Thousands.-From the same.

When hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

"Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one should wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,
And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

On a Sprig of Heath.-From Mrs. Grant's Poems.

Flower of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns

For thee the brake and tangled wood

To thy protecting shade she runs,

Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes
To rest upon thy opening blooms.

Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food and shelter seek from thee;
The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.

Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom,
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor
Though thou dispense no rich perfume,
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower
Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower.

Flower of the wild! whose purple glow
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Not the gay hues of Iris' bow,

Nor garden's artful varied pride,
With all its wealth of sweets, could cheer,
Like thee, the hardy mountaineer.

Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild

Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;

To pluck thy blossoms in the wild,

And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Where dwelt of old his rustic sires,
Is all his simple wish requires.

Flower of his dear-loved native land!

Alas, when distant, far more dear!

When he from some cold foreign strand,

Looks homeward through the blinding tear,

How must his aching heart deplore,

That home and thee he sees no more!