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Ode to Spring.
child, delightful Spring!
And swelling buds are crowned ;
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice,
And through the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
Of him, the favoured youth
That prompts their whispered sigh.
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.
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woos
Protects thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Thy greens, thy flowerets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone,
Each joy and new-born hope
To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers.
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,
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.
But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
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.
I best may choose to hail thy power,
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,
Forget me not! forget me not!
In memory I trace;
In fancy stop their rapid flight,
And all the past replace :
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.
From the same.
I go to the land where my father is gone,
The Lot of Thousands.— From the same.
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;
The weary wanderers home.
For thee the brake and tangled wood-
Flower of the desert though thou art!
The deer that range the mountain free,
Their food and shelter seek from thee;
Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom,
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor
Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Adorns the dusky mountain's side,
Nor garden's artful varied pride,
Of peace and freedom seem to breathe;
And deck his bonnet with the wreath,
Alas, when distant, far more dear!
Looks homeward through the blinding tear,