When, flying Ahab, and his fury wife,
In lone Arabian wilds, he shelter'd life
So, from Philippi, wander'd forth forlorn
Cilician Paul, with sounding scourges torn;
And Christ himself, so left, and trod no more
The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore.
But thou take courage! strive against despair! Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care! Grim war indeed on ev'ry side appears, And thou art menac'd by a thousand spears; Yet none shall drink thy blood, or shall offend Ev'n the defenceless bosom of my friend. For thee the Ægis of thy God shall hide, Jehova's self shall combat on thy side. The same, who vanquish'd under Sion's towr's At silent midnight, all Assyria's powr's, The same, who overthrew in ages past, Damascus' sons that lay'd Samaria waste! Their king he fill'd and them with fatal fears By mimic sounds of clarions in their ears. Of hoofs, and wheels, and neighings from afar Of clashing armour, and the din of war.
Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may) Still hope, and triumph, o'er thy evil day! Look forth, expecting happier times to come, And to enjoy, once more, thy native home!
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Written in the Author's 20th year.
TIME, never wand'ring from his annual round,
Bids Zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the ground;
Bleak winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain,
And earth assumes her transient youth again.
Dream I, or also to the spring belong
Increase of genius, and new pow'rs of song?
Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'er it seems,
Impels me now to some harmonious themes,
Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill
By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill,
My bosom burns and heaves, I hear within
A sacred sound, that prompts me to begin.
Lo! Phæbus comes, with his bright hair he blends
The radiant laurel wreath; Phoebus descends;
I mount, and, undepress'd by cumb'rous clay,
Through cloudy regions win my casy way;
Rapt through poetic shadowy haunts I fly:
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye,
My spirit searches all the realms of light,
And no Tartarean gulphs elude my sight.
But this ecstatic trance-this glorious storm
Of inspiration-what will it perform?
Spring claims the verse, that with his influence glows, And shall be paid with what himself bestows.
Thou, veil'd with op'ning foliage, lead'st the throng
Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel! in song;
us, in concert, to the season sing, Civic, and sylvan heralds of the spring!
With notes triumphant spring's approach declare! To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear! The Orient left, and Æthiopia's plains,
The sun now northward turns his golden reins;
Night creeps not now; yet rules with gentle sway,
And drives her dusky horrors swift away;
Now less fatigu'd, on his ætherial plain
Bootes follows his celestial wain i
And now the radiant centinels above,
Less num'rous, watch around the courts of Jove,
For, with the night, force, ambush, slaughter fly,
And no gigantic guilt alarms the sky.
Now haply says some shepherd, while he views,
Recumbent on a rock, the redd'ning dews,
This night, this surely, Phæbus miss'd the fair,
Who stops his chariot by her am'rous care.
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow,
Speeds to the woodland, and resumes her bow;
Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear,
Blesses his aid, who shortens her career.
Come-Phoebus cries--Aurora come-too late
Thou linger'st, slumb'ring, with thy wither'd mate!
Leave him, and to Hymettus' top repair!
Thy darling Cephalus expects thee there.
The goddess, with a blush, her love betrays,
But mounts, and driving rapidly, obeys.
Earth now desires thee, Phoebus! and t'engage
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age;
Desires thee, and deserves; for who so sweet,
When her rich bosom courts thy genial heat?
Her breath imparts to ev'ry breeze, that blows,
Arabia's harvest, and the Paphian rose.
Her lofty front she diadems around
With sacred pines, like Ops on Ida crown'd;
Her dewy locks, with various flow'rs new-blown,
She interweaves, various, and all her own,
For Proserpine, in such a wreath attir'd,
Tænarian Dis himself with love inspir'd.
Fear not, lest, cold and coy, the nymph refuse !
Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs, sues;
Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing,
And all her groves with warbled wishes ring.
Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires
The am'rous Earth to engage thy warm desires,
But, rich in balmy drugs, assists thy claim
Divine Physician! to that glorious name,
If splendid recompense, if gifts can move
Desire in thee (gifts often purchase love)
She offers all the wealth, her mountains hide,
And all that rests beneath the boundless tide.
How oft, when headlong from the heav'nly steep,
She sees thee playing in the western deep,
How oft she cries-" Ah Phoebus! why repair
Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there?
Can Tethys win thee? wherefore shouldst thou lave
A face so fair in her unpleasant wave ?
Come, seek my green retreats, and rather chuse
To cool thy tresses in my chrystal dews,
The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest;
Come, lay thy evening glories on my breast,
And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose,
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose!
No fears I feel like Semele to die,
Nor let thy burning wheels approach too nigh,
For thou can'st govern them, here therefore rest,
And lay thy evening glories on my breast!"
Thus breathes the wanton earth her am'rous flame, And all her countless offspring feel the same; For Cupid now through every region strays, Bright'ning his faded fires with solar rays,
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