Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours, Fair VENUS’ train, appear, Disclose the long-expected flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckow’s note, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whisp’ring pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky Their gather’d fragrance fling. Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch A broader browner shade, Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech O’er-canopies the glade, Beside some water’s rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclin’d in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the Crowd, How low, how little are the Proud, How indigent the Great! Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o’er the current skim, Some shew their gaily-gilded trim Quick-glancing to the sun. To Contemplation’s sober eye Such is the race of Man: And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the Busy and the Gay But flutter thro’ Life’s little day, In Fortune’s varying colours drest: Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill’d by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive kind reply: Poor Moralist! and what art thou? A solitary fly! Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone―― We frolic while ’tis May. THOMAS GRAY. ―――― ODE ON THE SPRING _By a Man of Fashion._ I. Lo! where party giving dames, Fair Fashion’s train, appear, Disclose the long-expected games, And wake the modish year. The opera-warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the actor’s note, The dear-bought harmony of Spring; While, beaming pleasure as they fly, Bright flambeaus through the murky sky Their welcome fragrance fling. II. Where’er the routs full myriads close The staircase and the door, Where’er thick files of belles and beaus Perspire through ev’ry pore; Beside some faro-table’s brink, With me the Muse shall stand and think, (Hemmed sweetly in by squeeze of state,) How vast the comfort of the crowd, How condescending are the proud, How happy are the great! III.