A filherman I would not live, Who labours in the pathlefs deep;

Whofe cruel art is to deceive, Whofe dwelling is a brittle fhip.

Let me mv blearing ewes attend, (Harmlefs mvfelf, and blefs’d as they);

With them my morning lleps I'll bend, With them I’ll wait the cloling day.

Now, underneath a plane-tree laid, Or carelefs by a lulling llream, Let me enjoy the cooling fhade, Or fweetly fink into a dream.


OW to the rofy-fingefid train of May, At length the dreary hours of winter yield : No more the hoar-frofi chills the new-born day, No more the wild winds blafi the fiow’ry field.

Now from yon orchard, lovely to the fight! A balmy fragrance breathe the zephyrs bland!

' \Vhile in luxuriant foliage, proudly dight,

The facred fathers of the forell (land.

Behold yon pine, that lifts its filver head, Deep in the hofom of the pathlefs glade:

Who now, to wander where its branches fpread, Will quit the fragance of the vernal lhade?

Yet when the blooming beauties of the wood, By winter chilPd, their leafy glories yield,

Thy bought fuperior to the llnrm have flood, And flouriflfd, verdant ’midl’t the rulfet field.

Mindful of this, my votive hands {hall cull Each product fair of April’s fruitful lhow’rs,

From each gay lhrub its blufhing honours pull, And on thy branches hang the various fl0w’rs,

And here, when Phoebus gilds the rifing day, I’ll often {trike with grateful hand the lyre; And thou, ’midlt vernal groves, {halt hear a lay,

Which friendlhip, faith, and conllancy infpire.

H. P.