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104

ODES. ETC.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

1

Come, fill me a Glass, fill it high,
A Bumper, a Bumper I'll have:
He's a Fool that will flinch, I'll not bate an Inch,
Tho' I drink my self into the Grave.

2

Here's a Health to all those jolly Souls,
Who like me will never give o'er,
Whom no Danger controuls, but will take off their Bowls,
And merrily stickle for more.

3

Drown Reason and all such weak Foes,
I scorn to obey her Command;
Cou'd she ever suppose I'd be led by the Nose,
And let my Glass idly stand?

4

Reputation's a Bugbear to Fools,
A Foe to the Joys of dear drinking,
Made use of by Tools, who'd set us new Rules,
And bring us to politick thinking.
105

5

Fill 'em all, I'll have six in a Hand,
For I've trifl'd an Age away;
'Tis in vain to command the fleeting Sand
Rowls on, and cannot stay.

6

Come my Lads, move the Glass, drink about,
We'll drink the Universe dry;
We'll set Foot to Foot, and drink it all out,
If once we grow sober we die.

SONG.

[From White's and Will's]

I

From White's and Will's
To purling rills
The love-sick Strephon flies;
There, full of woe,
His numbers flow,
And all in rhyme he dies.

II

The fair coquett,
With feign'd regret,
Invites him back to town;
But, when in tears
The youth appears,
She meets him with a frown.
106

III

Full oft' the maid
This prank had play'd,
'Till angry Strephon swore,
And, what is strange,
Tho' loth to change,
Would never see her more.

SONG.

[Why we love, and why we hate]

I

Why we love, and why we hate,
Is not granted us to know;
Random chance, or wilful fate,
Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

II

If on me Zelinda frown,
Madness 'tis in me to grieve:
Since her will is not her own,
Why should I uneasy live?

III

If I for Zelinda dy,
Deaf to poor Mizella's cries,
Ask not me the reason why:
Seek the riddle in the skies.
107

TO SIGNORA CUZZONI.

May 25, 1724.
Little Siren of the stage,
Charmer of an idle age,
Empty warbler, breathing lyre,
Wanton gale of fond desire,
Bane of every manly art,
Sweet enfeebler of the heart,
O, too pleasing in thy strain,
Hence, to southern climes again;
Tuneful mischief, vocal spell,
To this island bid farewel;
Leave us as we ought to be,
Leave the Britons rough and free.

To MIRANDA.

If e'er I quit the Single Life,
Be This the Model of my Wife.
O Beauty, without Art, compleat;
Who, from her Toilet simply neat,
The golden Tissue can despise,
And wears no Brilliants, but her Eyes.
Soft-blended in her Eyes should meet,
Desiring Love, and sparkling Wit;
And in her dimpled Smiles be seen
A modest with a cheerful Mien.
As Pauses find in Musick Place,
Her Speech let proper Silence grace.
108

Her Conversation ever free
From Censure, as from Levity:
And Undissembled Innocence,
Not apt to give, or take Offence.
Nor fond of Compliments, nor Rude;
Not a Coquette, nor yet a Prude.
Averse to wanton Serenades,
Nor pleas'd with Midnight Masquerades.
The Vertues, that her Sex adorn,
By Honour guarded, not by Scorn.
Not Superstitious, nor Profane,
But in Religion Greatly Plain.
To such a Virgin, such a Wife,
I give my Love; I give my Life.

To the Memory of the late EARL of HALIFAX.

June 30, 1718.
Weeping o'er thy sacred urn,
Ever shall the muses mourn;
Sadly shall their numbers flow,
Ever elegant in woe.
Thousands, nobly born, shall dy,
Thousands in oblivion ly,
Names, which leave no trace behind,
Like the clouds before the wind,
When the dusky shadows pass,
Lightly fleeting o'er the grass.
But, O Halifax, thy name
Shall through ages rise in fame:
Sweet remembrance shalt thou find,
Sweet in every noble mind.
110

To the Honourable MISS CARTERET.

Bloom of beauty, early flow'r
Of the blissful bridal bow'r,
Thou, thy parents pride and care,
Fairest offspring of the fair,
Lovely pledge of mutual love,
Angel seeming from above,
Was it not thou day by day
Dost thy very sex betray,
Female more and more appear,
Female, more than angel dear,
How to speak thy face and mien,
(Soon too dangerous to be seen)
How shall I, or shall the muse,
Language of resemblance chuse?
Language like thy mien and face,
Full of sweetness, full of grace!
By the next-returning spring,
When again the linnets sing,
When again the lambkins play,
Pretty sportlings full of May,
When the meadows next are seen,
Sweet enamel! white and green,
And the year, in fresh attire,
Welcomes every gay desire,
Blooming on shalt thou appear
More inviting than the year,
Fairer sight than orchard shows,
Which beside a river blows:
Yet, another spring I see,
And a brighter bloom in thee:
111

And another round of time,
Circling, still improves thy prime:
And, beneath the vernal skies,
Yet a verdure more shall rise,
'E're thy beauties, kindling slow,
In each finish'd feature glow,
'E're, in smiles and in disdain,
Thou exert thy maiden reign,
Absolute to save, or kill,
Fond beholders, at thy will.
Then the taper-moulded waste
With a span of ribbon braced,
And the swell of either breast,
And the wide high-vaulted chest,
And the neck so white and round,
Little neck with brilliants bound,
And the store of charms which shine
Above, in lineaments divine,
Crowded in a narrow space
To compleat the desp'rate face,
These alluring powers, and more,
Shall enamour'd youths adore;
These, and more, in courtly lays,
Many an aking heart shall praise.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happyest he of happy men,
Who, in courtship greatly sped,
Wins the damsel to his bed,
Bears the virgin-prize away,
Counting life one nuptial day!
For the dark-brown dusk of hair,
Shadowing thick thy forehead fair,
112

Down the veiny temples growing,
O'er the sloping shoulders flowing,
And the smoothly-pencil'd brow,
Mild to him in every vow,
And the fringed lid below,
Thin as thinnest blossoms blow,
And the hazely-lucid eye,
Whence heart-winning glances fly,
And that cheek of health, o'erspred
With soft-blended white and red,
And the witching smiles which break
Round those lips, which sweetly speak,
And thy gentleness of mind,
Gentle from a gentle kind,
These endowments, heav'nly dow'r!
Brought him in the promis'd hour,
Shall for ever bind him to thee,
Shall renew him still to woo thee.
114

On the Death of the Right Honourable. William Earl Cowper.

1723.

STROPHE I.

Wake the British harp again,
To a sad melodious strain;
Wake the harp, whose every string,
When Halifax resign'd his breath,
Accus'd inexorable death;
For I, once more, must in affliction sing,
One song of sorrow more bestow,
The burden of a heart o'ercharg'd with woe:
Yet, O my soul, if aught may bring relief,
Full many, grieving, shall applaud thy grief,
The pious verse, that Cowper does deplore,
Whom all the boasted powers of verse cannot restore,

ANTISTROPHE I.

Not to her, his fondest care,
Not to his lov'd offspring fair,
Nor his country ever dear,
From her, from them, from Britain torn:
With her, with them, does Britain mourn:
His name, from every eye, calls forth a tear;
And, intermingling sighs with praise,
All good men wish the number of his days
Had been to him twice told, and twice again,
In that seal'd book, where all things which pertain
To mortal man, whatever things befall,
Are from eternity confirm'd, beyond recall:

EPODE I.

Where every loss, and every gain,
Where every grief, and every joy,
115

Every pleasure, every pain,
Each bitter and each sweet alloy,
To us uncertain though they flow,
Are pre-ordain'd, and fix'd, above.
Too wretched state! did man foreknow
Those ills, which man cannot remove,
Vain is wisdom for preventing
What the wisest live lamenting.

STROPHE II.

Hither sent, who knows the day
When he shall be call'd away?
Various is the term assign'd:
An hour, a day, some months, or years,
The breathing soul on earth appears:
But, through the swift succession of mankind,
Swarm after swarm! a busy race,
The strength of cities, or of courts the grace,
Or who in camps delight, or who abide
Diffus'd o'er lands, or float on oceans wide,
Of them, though many here long-lingring dwell,
And see their children's children, yet, how few excell!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Here we come, and hence we go,
Shadows passing to and fro,
Seen a-while, forgotten soon:
But thou, to fair distinction born,
Thou Cowper, beamy in the morn
Of life, still brightening to the pitch of noon,
Scarce verging to the steep decline,
Hence summon'd while thy virtues radiant shine,
Thou singled out the fosterling of fame,
Secure of praise, nor less secur'd from blame,
116

Shalt be remember'd with a fond applause,
So long as Britons own the same indulgent laws.

EPODE II.

United in one publick weal,
Rejoicing in one freedom, all,
Cowper's hand apply'd the Seal,
And level'd the partition-wall.
The chosen seeds of great events
Are thinly sown, and slowly rise:
And Time the harvest-scythe presents,
In season, to the good and wise:
Hymning to the harp my story,
Fain would I record his glory.

STROPHE III.

Pouring forth, with heavy heart,
Truth unleaven'd, pure of art,
Like the hallow'd Bard of yore,
Who chaunted in authentick rhymes
The worthies of the good old times,
'E're living vice in verse was varnish'd o'er,
And vertue dyed without a song.
Support of friendless right, to powerful wrong
A check, behold him in the judgement-seat!
Twice, there, approv'd, in righteousness compleat:
In just awards, how gracious! tempering law
With mercy, and reproving with a winning awe.

ANTISTROPHE III.

Hear him speaking, and you hear
Reason tuneful to the ear!
Lips with thymy Language sweet,
117

Distilling on the hearer's mind
The balm of wisdom, speech refin'd,
Celestial gifts!—Oh, when the nobles meet,
When next, thou sea-surrounded land,
Thy nobles meet at Brunswick's high command,
In vain they shall the charmer's voice desire!
In vain those lips of eloquence require!
That mild conviction, which the soul assails
By soft alarms, and with a gentle force prevails!

EPODE III.

To such persuasion, willing, yields
The liberal Mind, in freedom train'd,
Freedom, which, in crimson'd fields,
By hardy toil our fathers gain'd,
Inheritance of long descent!
The sacred pledge, so dearly priz'd
By that bless'd spirit we lament:
Grief-easing lays, by grief devis'd,
Plaintive Numbers, gently flowing,
Sooth the sorrows to him owing!

STROPHE IV.

Early on his growing heir,
Stamp what time may not impair,
As he grows, that coming Years,
Or youthful Pleasures, or the vain
Gigantic phanton of the brain
Ambition, breeding monstrous hopes and fears,
Or worthier cares, to youth unknown,
Ennobling manhood, flower of life fullblown,
May never wear the bosom-image faint:
O, let him prove what words but weakly paint,
118

The living lovely semblance of his sire,
A model to his son! that ages may admire!

ANTISTROPHE IV.

Every virtue, every grace,
Still renewing in the race,
Once thy father's pleasing hope,
Thy widow'd mother's comfort now,
No fuller bliss does heaven allow,
While we behold yon wide-spread azure cope
With burning stars thick-lustred o'er,
Than to enjoy, and to deserve, a store
Of treasur'd fame by blameless deeds acquir'd,
By all unenvied, and by all desir'd,
Free-gift of men, the tribute of good-will!
Rich in this patrimony fair, increase it still.

EPODE IV.

The fulness of content remains
Above the yet unfathom'd skies,
Where, triumphant, gladness reigns,
Where wishes cease, and pleasures rise
Beyond all wish; where bitter tears
For dying friends are never shed;
Where, sighing, none desire pass'd years
Recall'd, or wish the future fled.
Mournful measures, O, relieve me!
Sweet remembrance! cease to grieve me.

STROPHE V.

He the robe of justice wore
Sully'd not, as heretofore,
When the magistrate was sought
With yearly gifts. Of what avail
119

Are guilty hoards? for life is frail;
And we are judg'd where favour is not bought.
By him forewarn'd, thou frantick isle,
How did the thirst of gold thy sons beguile!
Beneath the specious ruin thousands groan'd,
By him, alas, forewarn'd, by him bemoan'd.
Where shall his like, on earth, be found? oh, when
Shall I, once more, behold the most belov'd of men!

ANTISTROPHE V.

Winning aspect! winning mind!
Soul and body aptly join'd!
Searching thought, engaging wit,
Enabled to instruct, or please,
Uniting dignity with ease,
By nature form'd for every purpose fit,
Endearing excellence!—O, why
Is such perfection born, and born to dy?
Or do such rare endowments still survive,
As plants remov'd to milder regions thrive,
In one eternal spring? and we bewail
The parting soul, new-born to life that cannot fail,

EPODE V.

Where sacred friendship, plighted love,
Parental joys, unmix'd with care,
Through perpetual time improve?
Or do the deathless blessed share
Sublimer raptures, unreveal'd,
Beyond our weak conception pure?
But, while those glories ly conceal'd,
The righteous count the promise sure,
Trials to the last enduring,
To the last their hope securing.
120

To the Right Honourable William Pulteney, Esq

May 1, 1723.

I

Who, much distinguish'd, yet is bless'd?
Who, dignified above the rest,
Does, still, unenvied live?
Not to the Man whose wealth abounds,
Nor to the man whose fame resounds,
Does heaven such favour give,
Nor to the noble-born, nor to the strong,
Nor to the gay, the beautiful, or young.

II

Whom then, secure of happiness,
Does every eye beholding bless,
And every tongue commend?
Him, Pulteney, who possessing store
Is not solicitous of more,
Who, to mankind a friend,
Nor envies, nor is envied by, the great,
Polite in courts, polite in his retreat:

III

Whose unambitious, active, soul
Attends the welfare of the whole,
When publick storms arise,
And, in the calm, a thousand ways
Diversifies his nights and days,
Still elegantly wise;
While books, each morn, the lightsom soul invite,
And friends with season'd mirth improve the night.
121

IV

In him do men no blemish see;
And factions in his praise agree,
When most they vex the state:
Distinguish'd favorite of the skies,
Belov'd he lives, lamented dies:
Yet, shall he not to fate
Submit entire; the rescuing muse shall save
His precious name, and win him from the grave.

V

Too frail is brass and polish'd stone;
Perpetual fame the muse alone
On merit can bestow:
Yet, must the time-enduring song,
The verse unrival'd by the throng,
From nature's bounty flow:
The ungifted tribe in meter pass away,
Oblivion's sport, the poets of a day.

VI

What laws shall o'er the Ode preside?
In vain would art presume to guide
The chariot-wheels of praise,
When fancy, driving, ranges free,
Fresh flowers selecting like the bee,
And regularly strays,
While nature does, disdaining aids of skill,
The mind with thought, the ears with numbers, fill.

VII

As when the Theban hymns divine
Make proud Olympian victors shine
122

In an eternal blaze,
The varying measures, ever new,
Unbeaten tracks of fame pursue,
While through the glorious maze
The poet leads his heroes to renown,
And weaves in verse a never-fading crown.

To Miss Margaret Pulteney, daughter of Daniel Pulteney Esq; in the Nursery.

April 27, 1727.
Dimply damsel, sweetly smiling,
All caressing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that enquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day some vertue gaining,
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fescu'd now, perhaps, in spelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accuse each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming, creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averse to killing.
123

To Miss Charlotte Pulteney, in her Mother's Arms.

May 1, 1724.
Timely blossom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their solicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, still at ease,
Pleasing, without skill to please,
Little gossip, blithe and hale,
Tatling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linlet in the bush.
To the Mother-linnet's note
Moduling her slender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray,
Wearied then, and glad of rest,
Like the linlet in the nest.
This thy present happy lot,
This, in time, will be forgot:
Other pleasures, other cares,
Ever-busy time prepares;
And thou shalt in thy daughter see,
This picture, once, resembled thee.
124

To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE Esq

June 15, 1724.
Votary to publick zeal,
Minister of England's weal,
Have you leisure for a song,
Tripping lightly o'er the tongue,
Swift and sweet in every measure,
Tell me, Walpole, have you leisure?
Nothing lofty will I sing,
Nothing of the favourite king,
Something, rather, sung with ease,
Simply elegant to please.
Fairy virgin, British muse,
Some unhear'd of story chuse:
Chuse the Glory of the swain,
Gifted with a magick strain,
Swaging grief of every kind,
Healing, with a verse, the mind:
To him came a man of power,
To him, in a cheerless hour;
When the swain, by Druids taught,
Soon divin'd his irksom thought,
Soon the maple harp he strung,
Soon, with silver accent, sung.
“Steerer of a mighty realm,
“Pilot, waking o'er the helm,
“Blessing of thy native soil,
“Weary of a thankless toil,
“Cast repining thought behind,
“Give thy trouble to the wind.
“Mortal, destin'd to excell,
125

“Bear the blame of doing well,
“Like the Worthies great of old,
“In the list of Fame enroll'd.
“What, though titles thou decline?
“Still the more thy virtues shine.
“Envy, with her serpent eye,
“Marks each praise that soars on high.
“To thy lot resign thy will:
“Every good is mix'd with ill.
“See, the white unblemish'd rose
“On a thorny bramble blows:
“See, the torrent pouring rain
“Does the limpid fountain stain:
“See, the giver of the day
“Urgeth on, through clouds, his way:
“Nothing is, entirely, bless'd;
“Envy does thy worth attest.
“Pleasing visions, at command,
“Answer to my voice and hand;
“Quick, the blissful scene prepare,
“Sooth the patriot's heavy care:
“Visions, cheering to the fight,
“Give him earnest of delight.
“Wise disposer of affairs,
“View the end of all thy cares!
“Forward cast thy ravish'd eyes,
“See the glad'ning harvest rise:
“Lo, the people reap thy pain!
“Thine the labour, their the gain.
“Yonder turn, a-while, thy view,
“Turn thee to yon spreading yew,
“Once the gloomy tree of fate,
126

“Once the plighted virgin's hate:
“Now, no longer, does it grow
“Parent of the warring bow:
“See, beneath the guiltless shade,
“Peasants shape the plow and spade,
“Rescued, ever, from the fear
“Of the whistling shaft and spear.
“Lo, where Plenty comes, with Peace!
“Hear the breath of murmur cease:
“See, at last, unclouded days;
“Hear, at last, unenvied praise.
“Nothing shall thy soul molest;
“Labour is the price of rest.
“Mortal, destin'd to excell,
“Bless the toil of doing well!

Supplication for Miss Carteret in the Small-Pox.

Dublin, July 31, 1725.
Pow'r o'er ev'ry pow'r supreme,
Thou the poet's hallow'd theme,
From thy mercy-seat on high,
Hear my numbers, hear my cry.
Breather of all vital breath,
Arbiter of life and death,
Oh, preserve this innocence,
Yet unconscious of offence,
Yet in life and virtue growing,
Yet no debt to nature owing.
Thou, who giv'st angelick grace
To the blooming virgin face,
Let the fell disease not blight
127

What thou mad'st for man's delight:
O'er her features let it pass
Like the breeze o'er springing grass,
Gentle as refreshing showers
Sprinkled over opening flowers.
O, let years alone diminish
Beauties thou wast pleas'd to finish.
To the pious parents give
That the darling fair may live:
Turn to blessings all their care,
Save their fondness from despair.
Mitigate the lurking pains
Lodg'd within her tender veins;
Soften every throb of anguish,
Suffer not her strength to languish;
Take her to thy careful keeping,
And prevent the mother's weeping.

TO Miss Georgiana Youngest Daughter to Lord Carteret.

August 10, 1725.
Little charm of placid mien,
Miniature of beauty's queen,
Numbering years, a scanty nine,
Stealing hearts without design,
Young inveigler, fond in wiles,
Prone to mirth, profuse in smiles,
Yet a novice in disdain,
Pleasure giving without pain,
Still caressing, still caress'd,
128

Thou, and all thy lovers bless'd,
Never teiz'd, and never teizing,
O for ever pleas'd and pleasing!
Hither, British muse of mine,
Hither all the Grecian nine,
With the lovely graces three,
And your promis'd nurseling see:
Figure on her waxen mind
Images of life refin'd;
Make it, as a garden gay,
Every bud of thought display,
Till, improving year by year,
The whole culture shall appear,
Voice, and speech, and action, rising,
All to human sense surprising.
Is the silken web so thin
As the texture of her skin?
Can the lilly and the rose
Such unsully'd hue disclose?
Are the violets so blue
As her veins expos'd to view?
Do the stars, in wintry sky,
Twinkle brighter than her eye?
Has the morning lark a throat
Sounding sweeter than her note?
Whoe'er knew the like before thee?
They who knew the nymph that bore thee.
From thy pastime and thy toys,
From thy harmless cares and joys,
Give me now a moment's time:
When thou shalt attain thy prime,
And thy bosom feel desire,
Love the likeness of thy sire,
One ordain'd, thro' life, to prove
129

Still thy glory, still thy love.
Like thy sister, and like thee,
Let thy nurtur'd daughters be:
Semblance of the fair who bore thee,
Trace the pattern set before thee.
Where the Liffy meets the main,
Has thy sister hear'd my strain:
From the Liffy to the Thames,
Minstrel echoes sing their names,
Wafting to the willing ear
Many a cadence sweet to hear,
Smooth as gently breathing gales
O'er the ocean and the vales,
While the vessel calmly glides
O'er the level glassy tides,
While the summer flowers are springing,
And the new fledg'd birds are singing.

Occasion'd by the early SINGING of a LARK.

Attend, my Soul! The early Birds inspire
My groveling Thoughts with pure, celestial Fire.
They from their temp'rate Sleep awake, and pay
Their thankful Anthems for the New-born Day.
See, how the tuneful Lark is mounted high!
And, Poet-like, salutes the Eastern Sky.
He warbles thro' the fragrant Air his Layes,
And seems the Beauties of the Morn to praise.
But Man, more void of Gratitude, awakes,
And gives no Thanks for that sweet Rest he takes:
Looks on the glorious Sun's new-kindled Flame,
Without one Thought of Him, from whom it came.
The Wretch, unhallow'd, does the Day begin;
Shakes off his Sleep, but shakes not off his Sin.
130

A MIDNIGHT THOUGHT.

When Gamesome Youth, and Love's unruly Fire,
Are quell'd by Age, that deadens all Desire;
When Chearful Days and Jovial Nights are fled,
And drooping Health inclines her sickly Head;
When downy Sleep, tho' courted long, denies
To bless my Bed, and close my weary Eyes;
When Nature sickens, and with fainting Breath,
Struggles beneath the bitter pangs of Death;
When helpless Art no hopes of Life can give,
Nor Pray'r, nor Tears, the sentenc'd Wretch reprieve;
When all our Friends, then few, make heavy Moan;
And heighten all our Sorrows by their own:
Amid the Terrors of this solemn Woe,
The fleeting Soul begins her self to know;
Turns o'er the Register of Life in Haste,
Weighs all her Thoughts, her Words and Actions past.
Then, if no frightful Images appear,
No ghastly Ills awake her conscious Fear;
Gently she lays her down in Peace to rest,
As Infants sleep upon their Mother's Breast.

SONG.

[Then never let me see her more!]

Then never let me see her more!
In vain I sigh, in vain adore.
In some lonely Desart Place,
Far from Sight of Human Race;
In some unfrequented Cell,
Where neither Joy nor Sorrow dwell,
Oh! let me' endeavour to forget
At once my self, and Amoret.
131

Reading Mr. WALLER.

Inhuman Saccharissa! not to love
The Man, whose Verse might Rocks to Pity move.
Yet, since Amphion sung, they Sense retain;
And Verse may soften all Things, but Disdain.
As he the fatal Glories of your Eyes,
His easie Wit, and courtly Pen, I prize.
In vain, like him, I sigh, in vain I mourn;
For, Waller's Muse has Saccharissa's Scorn.

LYING at her FEET.

This Posture, and these Tears, that Heav'n might move,
In vain I use in Favour of my Love:
And while thus prostrate at her Feet I lye,
Like some fair Rock she stands, that tow'ring high,
Seems deaf to those sad Murmurs, which below
The plaintive Waters utter, as they flow.

[Promis'd Blessing of the Year]

Promis'd Blessing of the Year;
Fairest Blossom of the Spring;
Thy Fond Mother's Wish; appear!
Haste, to hear the Linnets sing.
Haste to breathe the vernal Air:
Come, and see the Primrose blow.
Nature does her Lap prepare:
Nature thinks thy Coming slow.
Glad the People; quickly Smile;
Darling Native of the Isle!
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