(The First Seen In The Season.)

--nitens, et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat. (Ovid).

Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower, That peeping from thy rustic bower, The festive news to earth dost bring, A fragrant messenger of spring!

But tender blossom, why so pale? Dost hear stern winter in the gale? And didst them tempt th' ungentle sky To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre sickness wears, When health's first feeble beam appears; So languid are the smiles that seek To settle on the care-worn cheek,

When timorous hope the head uprears, Still drooping and still moist with tears, If, through dispersing grief, be seen Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.

1796.

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.

This day among the faithful placed, And fed with fontal manna, O with maternal title graced Dear Anna's dearest Anna!--

While others wish thee wise and fair, A maid of spotless fame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer-- May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name--a potent spell, That bids the virtues hie From mystic grove and living cell Confess'd to fancy's eye;--

Meek quietness without offence; Content in homespun kirtle; True love; and true love's innocence, White blossom of the myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet child! These virtues may'st thou win; With face as eloquently mild To say, they lodge within.

So, when her tale of days all flown, Thy mother shall be mist here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own, And angels snatch their sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, May gaze with stifled breath; And oft, in momentary trance, Forget the waste of death.

Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd, In summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanced, I pass'd again that way In autumn's latest hour, And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray Rich with the selfsame flower.

Ah, fond deceit! the rude green bud Alike in shape, place, name, Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, Another and the same!

1796.

EPIGRAM.

Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse To all, and at all times; And finds them both divinely smooth, His voice, as well as rhymes.

Yet folks say--"Maevius is no ass:"-- But Maevius makes it clear, That he's a monster of an ass, An ass without an ear.

1797.