The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,

High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield

O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise:

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade,
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is given,

Who long with wants and woes has striven,
By human pride or cunning driven,

To misery's brink,

Till, wrench'd of every stay but Heaven,
He, ruin'd, sink !

BURNS.

ODE TO SPRING.

EARTH now is green, and heaven is blue;

Lively Spring, which makes all new,

Jolly Spring doth enter;

Sweet young sunbeams do subdue

Angry, aged Winter.

Winds are mild, and seas are calm,

Every meadow flows with balm,

The earth wears all her riches; Harmonious birds sing such a psalm As ear and heart bewitches.

SIR J. DAVIES.

RETIREMENT.

AN ODE.

ON beds of daisies idly laid,
The willow waving o'er my head,
Now morning, on the bending stem,
Hangs the round and glittering gem,
Lull'd by the lapse of yonder spring,
Of nature's various charms I sing:
Ambition, pride, and pomp, adieu,
For what has joy to do with you?
Joy, rose-lipt dryad, loves to dwell
In sunny field, or mossy cell;
Delights on echoing hills to hear
The reaper's song, or lowing steer;
Or view, with tenfold plenty spread,
The crowded corn-field, blooming mead;
While beauty, health, and innocence,
Transport the eye, the soul, the sense.

WARTON, SEN.

SONNET.

THAT time of year thou mayest in me behold
When yellow leaves, or nonc, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

SHAKSPEARE.

ODE.

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose passions not his masters are ;
Whose soul is still prepar'd for death;

Not ty'd unto the world with care

Of prince's ear, or vulgar breath :

Who hath his life from rumours freed d;
Whose conscience is his strong retreat :
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruine make oppressors great :