_Ode Xli._

When Spring begems the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs, As o'er the scented mead he flies! How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to fall in tears of wine;

And with the maid, whose every sigh Is love and bliss, entranced to lie Where the imbowering branches meet-- Oh! is not this divinely sweet?