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 thon, the nymph with placid eye ! There Health, through whose calm boseldom found, yet ever nigh!

som glide Receive my temperate vow :

The temperate joys in even-tide,
Not all the storms that shake the pole That rarely ebb or flow;
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And Patience there, thy sister meek, And smooth the unaltered brow. Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offered blow. O come, in simple vest arrayed, With all thy sober cheer displayed, Her influence taught the Phrygian sage To bless my longing sight;

A tyrant master's wanton rage Thy mien composed, thy even paco,

With settled smiles to wait: Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, Inured to toil and bitter bread, And chaste subdued delight.

He bowed his meek submissive head,

And kissed thy sainted feet.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
To find thy hermit cell ;

In what brown hamlet dost thou joy Where in some pare and equal sky,

To tell thy tender tale ? Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The lowliest children of the ground, The modest virtues dweli.

Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,

And lily of the vale.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast, O say what soft propitious hour
And clear undaunted eye;

I best may choose to hail thy power,
And Hope, who points to distant years, And court thy gentle sway?
Fair opening through this vale of tears, When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
A vista to the sky.

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 poems, characterized by a simple and placid tenderness. She is more celebrated for her novels--to be afterwards noticed and for her general literary merits and association with all the eminent per sons 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 land. scape-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,

Poor foolish child! how pleased was I And hear a helpless orphan's tale ;

When tiews of Nelson's victory came Ah! sure my looks must pity wake; Along the crowded streets to fly,

'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. And see the lighted windows flame! Yet I was once a mother's pride,

To force me home, my mother sought; And my brave father's hope and joy; She could not bear to see my joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, For with my father's life 'twas bought, And I am now an orphan boy

And made me a poor orphan boy.

The people's shouts were long and loud, And now they've tolled my mother's knell,

My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; And I'm no more a parent's joy ; 'Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; O lady, I have learned too well

My mother answered with her tears. What 'tis to be an orphan boy! "Why are you crying thus,' said I,

"While others laugh and shout with joy?' Oh, were I by your bounty fed ! She kissed me--and, with such a sigh! Nay, gentle lady, do not chideShe called me her poor orphan boy. Trust me, I mean to earn my bread;

The sailor's orphan boy has pride. • What is an orphan boy?' I cried, Lady, you weep !--ha!-this to me ?

As in her face I looked and smiled; You'll give me clothing, food, employ? My mother through her tears replied: Look down, dear parents ! look and see

You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !' Your happy, happy, orphan boy!

Song.–From the same. Go, youth beloved, in distant glades [find! Yet, should the thought of my distress

New friends, new hopes, new joys to Too painful to thy feelings be, Yet sometimes deign, 'midst fairer maids, Heed not the wish I now express,

To think on her thou leav'st behind. Nor ever deign to think on me: Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share, But oh! if grief thy steps attend, Must never be my happy lot;

If want, if sickness be thy lot,
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer, And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not forget me not!

Forget me not! forget me not!
Song.–From Mrs. Hunter's Poems.
The season comes when first we met, The fleeting shadows of delight,
But you return no more;

In memory I trace;
Why cannot I the days forget,

In fancy stop their rapid flight,
Which time can ne'er restore?

And all the past replace :
O days too sweet, too bright to las But, ah! I wake to endless woes,
Are you indeed for ever past?

And tears the fading visions close!

Song.-- From the same. O tuneful voice! I still deplore

Bright eyes. O that the task were mine Those accents which, though heard no To guard the liquid fires that shine, more,

And round your orbits play ; Still vibrate on my heart;

To watch them with a vestal's care, In echo's cave I long to dwell,

And feed with smiles a light so fair, And still would hear the sad farewell, That it may ne'er decay!

When we were doomed to part.
The Death-song, written for and adapted to, an Original Indian Air.-

From the same.
The sun gets 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, Yet such the lot by thousands cast
By secret sorrow close concealed,

Who wander in this world of care, We shrink lest looks or words impart And bend beneath the bitter blast, What must not be revealed.

To save them from despair. "Tis hard to smile when one would weep; But nature waits her guests to greet,

To speak when one would silent be; Where disappointment cannot come;
To wake when one should wish to sleep, And time guides with unerring feet
And wake to agony.

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!