TO THE RIVER ARUN.

N thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn, No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear, Yet shall the mournful Muse thy course adorn, And still to her thy rustic waves be dear :For with the infant Otway, lingering here, Of early woes she bade her votary dream, While thy low murmurs soothed his pensive ear, And still the poet-consecrates the stream. Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side, The first-born violets of the year shall spring; And in thy hazels, bending o'er the tide, The earliest Nightingale delight to sing : -While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate!

WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING.

HE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,

Each simple flower, which she had nursed in

dew,

Anemones, that spangled every grove,

The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue.

No more shall violets linger in the dell,
Or purple orchis variegate the plain,

Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.

Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day,

Till tyrant passion and corrosive care,

Bid all thy fairy colours fade away.

-Another May new buds and flowers shall bring:

Ah! why has happiness no second Spring?

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING

IN A MORNING WALK, 25TH JAN., 1793.

ING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain :

See aged winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow.
So in lone poverty's dominion drear,

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart,
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.
I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies!
Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,

The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee

I'll share.

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, OF GRENRIDDEL, APRIL, 1794.

O more, ye warblers of the wood, no more!
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul;
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant

stole

More welcome were to me grim winter's wildest roar.

How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend :

How can I to the tuneful strain attend?

That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies!

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe,

And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier :

The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer,

Is in his harrow house for ever darkly low.

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.

ON PARTING WITH HIS BOOKS.

S one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,

And temper as he may affliction's dart ;

Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,

I now resign you: nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,

And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore;

When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.