MS.

Sylph was it? or a Bird more bright

Than those of fabulous stock?

A second darted by;— and lo!

Another of the flock,

Through sunshine flitting from the bough

To nestle in the rock.

Transient deception! a gay freak

Of April's mimicries!

Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy

Among the budding trees,

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray

To frolic on the breeze.

Maternal Flora! show thy face,

And let thy hand be seen,

Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,

That, as they touch the green,

Take root ( so seems it ) and look up

In honour of their Queen.

Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,

That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,

Most dainty, most admired,

Were only blossoms dropped from twigs

Of their own offspring tired.

Not such the World's illusive shows;

Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave

The floweret as it springs,

For the undeceived, smile as they may,

Are melancholy things:

But gentle Nature plays her part

With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth

So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased

Whom oftenest she beguiles.