SPRING. A NEW VERSION. Ham. "The air bites shrewdly-it is very cold. HAMLET. "COME, gentle Spring! ethereal mildness come!" Oh! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason, How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum? There's no such season. The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name! Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing, Let others eulogize her floral shows, From me they cannot win a single stanza, I know her blooms are in full blow-and so's The Influenza. Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale, Fair is the vernal quarter of the year! And fair its early buddings and its blowings— But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear With other sowings! For me, I find, when eastern winds are high, Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy Smitten by breezes from the land of plague, Oh! where's the Spring in a rheumatic leg, I limp in agony,-I wheeze and cough; What wonder if in May itself I lack A peg for laudatory verse to hang on? Spring mild and gentle !-yes, a Spring-heeled Jack To those he sprang on. In short, whatever panegyrics lie In fulsome odes too many to be cited, The tenderness of Spring is all my eye, And that is blighted! THE FLOWER. ALONE, across a foreign plain, This lovely Isle beyond the sea, Its leafy woods, its shady vales, When lo! he starts, with glad surprise, With eager haste he stoops him down, THE SEA-SPELL. "Cauld, cauld, he lies beneath the deep." It was a jolly mariner! Old Scotch Ballad. The tallest man of three, He loosed his sail against the wind, And turn'd his boat to sea: The ink-black sky told every eye, A storm was soon to be! But still that jolly mariner A thing, as gossip-nurses know, His hat was new, or, newly glazed, Shone brightly in the sun; True blue as e'er was spun; And now the fretting foaming tide The bounding pinnace play'd a game A game that, on the good dry land, Good Heaven befriend that little boat, A boat they say, has canvas wings, Though, like a merry singing-bird, Still south by east the little boat, Like greedy swine that feed on mast,- The sulken sky grew black above, The boatman look'd against the wind, The mast began to creak, The wave, per saltum, came and dried, In salt upon his cheek! The pointed wave against him rear'd, As if it own'd a pique! Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave, But still he stood away to sea, He thought by purchase he was safe, Now thick and fast and far aslant, The sea-fowl shriek'd around the mast, It would have quail'd another heart, For why? he had that infant's caul; The rushing brine flowed in apace; And so he went, still trusting on, For as he left his helm, to heave Three monstrous seas came roaring on, |