Ah spare that agonizing hour
Come quickly, Death! and I will bless thy pow'r.
Come quickly-fnatch me to the realms above,
But spare that pang to part with those I love!
And when the grass shall wave
Slow o'er my humble grave,
My grave beside some hawthorn bush, wherein
The nightingale shall sing her song,
Then may the peasant say, and drop a tear,
"The bard belov'd by all lies bury'd here."
TO MY SPANIEL.
WHY cringing, crouching, tail uncurld,
Thus dost thou greet
Thy master's feet?
I would not hurt thee for the world.
And, yet, I love thy fawning grace;
"Tis Nature's voice,
And I rejoice
Her ever-varied speech to trace.
But Man, of Heav'n the noblest born,
Such arts and wiles,
To gain the smiles.
Of Patron proud, should ever scorn;
Should wrap himself in dignity and worth,
And, Heav'n his friend, defy the rocking earth.
A MORNING PIECE
From the First Chorus in the Hercules Furens of Seneca.
Jam rara micant sidera prono
Languida mundo: Nox victa vagos
Contrahit ignes; luce renata
Cogit nitidum Phosporus agmen, &c.
SCATTER'D, and feebly twinkling, die
The stars all o'er the whitening sky;
Far west the vanquish'd Night retires,
And calls away her wandering fires;
Bright Phosphor last the shining train
Compels along the aërial plain;
With wheel oblique a-down the pole
Their wintery wain the Ursæ roll.
The mounting Sun, wide-beaming, now
Has gilded Oeta's lofty brow;
While woody hill and grassy vale
His joy-reviving splendour hail.
The Moon, fair regent of the Night,
Withdraws her dim diminish'd light;-
Mild sister beam! she'll soon return,
And in fraternal radiance burn.
The cock has crow'd his warning clear,
The lark has thrill'd the plowman's ear,
And sleep from all the hamlet's fled;
Hale Industry leaps from his bed,
And opes the early cottage door;
The sky, the mattin landscape o'er,
Serene, with various muse he scans,
And the day's future labour plans.
From where a-down the valley green
The hamlet's smoke is frequent seen,
Their flocks a-field the shepherds lead,
That browse the springing dewy blade;
While o'er the meadows free and gay
The steerlings butt in frolic play,
Their vacant dams are feeding by,
The milky treasure to supply;
And light-foot kids erratic spring
In many a wild convolving ring.
The Thracian warbler * 'mid the trees
With all a mother's transport sees
Her young the new-fledg'd wing display,
And wondering fit from spray to spray :
She scans their beauties o'er and o'er,
New beauties ripening every hour;
And, as their short low warblings rise,
Love thrills her heart and lights her eyes;
Pleas'd every lovely trace to find,
She recognizes all her kind;
Sleeks every feather with delight,
And turns thein to the orient light;
While all around, a gleeful throng.
The birds loud raise the mingling song,
And, chanting clear from spray to spray,
Salute the God of Light and Day.
The sailor to the swelling gale
Wide expands the rustling sail;
On the rock's protruded side,
Scoop'd and hollow'd by the tide,
With baited hook and line in hand,
The patient fisher takes his stand;
The tug just felt, the trembling line
Bespeaks the prey-quick at the sign
* Philomela, the Nightingale. See Ovid's Metamorphoses.
His well-experienced skill he plies,
And flings ashore the flouncing prize.
Such tranquil joys the man attend
Whom Innocence and Worth befriend;
Whose wish Ambition ne'er has drove
Beyond his small domain to rove.
The plough, the fold, give all he needs,
And what amuses, clothes and feeds;
While love and duty grace his board,
And bless with smiles their rural lord.
But joys like these they ne'er attain
Who grasp for power or ill-won gain
Amid the City's impious noise,
Where racking hope and fear annoys.
Sleepless, by Disappointment cross'd,
Or Apprehension's tempest toss'd,
Some, heedless of Enjoyment's hour,
Hang on the hollow smiles of power;
Cringe, vilely servile, to the Great,
And crowd the deaf proud gates of State;
And some with endless toil and pain
Pant, scramble, grasp, and squeeze for gain;
Brood o'er the mammon with insatiate gaze,
While gnawing want upon their vitals preys.
Puff'd with the breath of vague acclaim,
One glories in capricious Fame;
Of fickle, empty plaudits proud,
He hails elate the shouting crowd:
Another, fierce in wordy war,
With venal thunder shakes the Bar;
Or right or wrong, his zeal the same,
The fee, not justice, is his aim.
How few in calm secure repose
Enjoy content what Heaven bestows;
And knowing they cannot Time re-bring,
Leap up and ride upon his wing.
Bask in the sun while it is day,
Live, and live happy, while you may;
For days and years successive roll,
And life still hastens to the goal.
The Sisters ply their fatal trade,
Nor ever backward trace the thread;
But mortals run with headlong haste
To meet the fate by which they're chas'd;
And madly of their own accord
Rush on the hated Stygian ford.
O great Alcides! lur'd astray
By Glory's over-ardent ray,
Too eagerly you speed to tread
The dismal mansions of the dead!
Soon comes the day the Fates ordain,
And none may Death's fell hand restrain;
None may the fatal lot put by-
The urn is shook, and out they fly."
Let others burn to shine afar
In Grandeur's proud triumphal car;
Let others boast a deathless name,
And the loud voice of babbling Fame
To distant lands and ages roll,
And sound their praise from pole to pole,
Till, claiming kindred with the skies,
Heroes and demi-gods they rise:
But may some humble rustic shed
From strife and envy shield my head.
Where, safe in my obscure retreat,
In peace th' awards of Heav'n I'll wait.
For hoary age by slow degrees
Steals on the scenes of quiet ease;
And poverty's small fortune's sure,
In snug humility secure;
While he who climbs ambition's height,
But falls with aggravated weight.
|