Oh Heaven! the soft refreshing gale It breathes into my breast! My sunk eye gleams; my cheek, so pale, Is with new colours dress'd. Blithe Health! thou soul of life and ease! Come thou, too, on the balmy breeze, Invigorate my frame: I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, With thee the distant clime will trace Beyond those clouds of flame. Above, below, what charms unfold In all the varied view! Before me all is burnish'd gold, Behind the twilight's hue. The mists which on old Night await, Far to the west they hold their state, They shun the clear blue face of Morn; Along the fine cerulean sky The fleecy clouds successive fly, While bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. And hark! the thatcher has begun His whistle on the eaves, And oft the hedger's bill is heard Among the rustling leaves. The slow team creaks upon the road, The noisy whip resounds, The driver's voice, his carol blithe, The mower's stroke, his whetting scythe Mix with the morning's sounds. Who would not rather take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze, Than on the silken couch of Sloth Luxurious to lie; Who would not from life's dreary waste Snatch, when he could, with eager haste, An interval of joy! To him who simply thus recounts The morning's pleasures o'er, Fate dooms, ere long, the scene must close To ope on him no more. Yet Morning! unrepining still, He'll greet thy beams awhile; And surely thou, when o'er his grave Solemn the whispering willows wave, Wilt sweetly on him smile: And the pale glowworm's pensive light Will guide his ghostly walks in the drear moonless night. ON DISAPPOINTMENT. Come, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad: Come, in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the lingering knell That tells her hopes are dead; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here. Come, Disappointment, come! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, For thou severe wert sent from heaven To wean me from the world; To turn my eye From vanity, And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. What is this passing scene? A peevish April day! A little sun--a little rain, And then night sweeps along the plain. And all things fade away. Man (soon discuss'd) Yields up his trust, And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust.