Near the chequer'd, lonely grove,

Hears, and keeps thy secrets, love!
Stella, thither let us stray,

Lightly o'er the dewy way.

Phoebus drives his burning car
Hence, my lovely Stella, far;
In his stead, the queen of night
Round us pours a lambent light:
Light that seems but just to show
Breasts that beat, and cheeks that glow;
Let us now, in whisper'd joy,
Evening's silent hours employ,
Silence best, and conscious shades,
Please the hearts that love invades,

Other pleasures give them pain,

Lovers all but love disdain.

Descend on earth's expectant breast,
To earth and Heaven welcome guest,
Thou merry month of May!

Mark! how we meet thee

At dawn of dewy day!

Hark! how we greet thee
With our roundelay!

While all the goodly things that be
In carth, and air, and ample sea,
Are waking up to welcome thee,

Thou merry month of May!

Flocks on the mountains,

And birds upon their spray,

Tree, turf, and fountains

All hold holiday ;

And Love, the life of living things,

Love waves his torch, and clasps his wings,

And loud and wide thy praises sings,

Thou merry month of May!

HEBER.

ODE ON THE SPRING.

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 cuckoo'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 reclined 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 :

Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon :

Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show 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 glittering 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.

GRAY.