Beneath two soft transparent clouds do meet,
In which he seems to sink his softer feet;

A melancholy thought, condens'd to air,
Stolen from a lover in despair,

Like a thin mantle serves to wrap

In fluid folds his visionary shape;

A wreath of darkness round his head he wears, Where curling mists supply the want of hairs ; While the still vapours, which from poppies rise, Bedew his hoary face and lull his eyes.

IV.

But, hark! the heav'nly sphere turns round,

And silence now is drown'd

In ecstasy of sound.

How on a sudden the still air is charm'd,

As if all harmony were just alarm'd!
And ev'ry soul, with transport fill'd,
Alternately is thaw'd and chill'd.
See how the heav'nly choir

Come flocking to admire,

And with what speed and care

Descending angels cut the thinnest air!

Haste then, come all th' immortal throng,

Leave your lov'd mansions in the sky,

And hither, quickly hither, fly;

Your loss of heav'n nor shall you need to fear;
While she sings 'tis heaven here.

V.

See how they crowd, see how the little cherubs skip !

While others sit around her mouth, and sip

Sweet hallelujahs from her lip;

Those lips where in surprise of bliss they rove;
For ne'er before did angels taste

So exquisite a feast

Of music and of love:

Prepare, then, ye immortal choir!
Each sacred minstrel tune his lyre,

And with her voice in chorus join,

Her voice which, next to yours, is most divine;
Bless the glad earth with heav'nly lays,

And to that pitch th' eternal accents raise,

Which only breath inspir'd can reach,

To notes which only she can learn and you can teach;

While we, charm'd with the lov'd excess,

Are wrapt in sweet forgetfulness

Of all, of all, but of the present happiness,
Wishing for ever in that state to lie,

For ever to be dying so, yet never die.

GRAY.

L

ON THE SPRING.

The original title of this ode was
"Noontide." It was composed at
Stoke Poges early in 1742, a year of
great fecundity with Gray, and was
printed by Dodsley in 1752.

O! where the rosy-bosomed Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of Spring;
While, whispering pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky
Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader browner shade,

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'ercanopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the Muse shall sit and think.

(At ease reclined in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care;
The panting herds repose;

Yet hark, how through the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring,

And float amid the liquid noon;
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of Man ;

And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.

Alike the Busy and the Gay

But flutter through life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours drest ;' Brushed by the hand of rough Mischance,

Or chilled by Age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply:

"Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy Spring is goneWe frolic while 't is May."