The Graces for the son of Myrrha pine;
And, Venus! shriek with shriller voice than thine. Muses Adonis, fair Adonis, call,
And sing him back; but he is deaf to all. Bootless the sorrow, that would touch his sprite, Nor Proserpine shall loose him to the light: Cease, Venus! now thy wail: reserve thy tear: Again to fall with each Adonian year.
A STRIPLING bird-catcher, in thick-set grove
Chasing the birds, espied the vagrant Love
Perch'd on a box-tree bough. He thrill'd with joy;
So large a bird appear'd the winged boy:
Then join'd, in eager haste, the ready snare,
And watch'd the flutterer hopping here and there :
Till, at his endless efforts mortified,
In sudden pet he cast the springe aside.
To an old ploughman, master of the art,
Hasten'd the boy, his grievance to impart;
And show'd where Love sate perch'd: the old man
smiled,
Shook his gray head, and answer'd thus the child:
"Boy! give the bird-chase o'er; fly fast
Happy to lose so mischievous a prey:
And, doubt not, if to man thy stature rise,
That nimble fugitive, who flits and flies,
Shall of himself to meet thy presence spring,
And perch upon thy head with bold familiar wing."
THE tall-form'd Venus stood beside my bed;
The infant Love with downcast hanging head
In her fair hand: then cried, "Beloved swain!
Make Love thy pupil in the vocal strain."
She said, and pass'd away. I simply strove
To tutor this, the seeming-docile Love,
In shepherd songs: I bade the urchin heed,
How Pan first join'd the slant unequal reed;
How Phoebus swept the harp; the mellow flute
Minerva breath'd, and Hermes strung the lute.
Such were my lessons: but the careless child,
Instructor in his turn, my ear beguiled
With amorous chaunt. He sang, how Gods above,
And earthly mortals, languish into love;
And all his mother's soft adventures taught,
Till all the tutor vanish'd from my thought.
I learn'd the tender lore of Love alone,
Intent on his, forgetful of my own.
WINTER, or autumn, summer-month, or spring,
Which yields most pleasure on its passing wing?
The summer, when our harvest-toils are crown'd,
Or autumn sweet, when hunger light is found?
Or sluggish winter? since when winters freeze,
Many their cold limbs chafe in torpid fireside ease?
Or beauteous spring? be thy election made:
For we may talk at leisure in the shade.
Befits not men to scan the heavenly things;
For each is holy: each its pleasure brings:
Yet for thy sake will I my reason name:
I would not summer, when the sun strikes flame;
I would not autumn, since the fruitful trees
Scatter the seeds of surfeit and disease;
Hard winter's nipping frosts and snows I fear;
Be spring, wish'd spring, my season through the
Then neither cold our shrinking body bends,
Nor with hot stroke th' o'erburthening sun im
All sweet things bud with sap of green delights,
And Man has equal days and equal nights.
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