WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY To thee, fair Freedom! I retire From flattery, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot, or humble inn. "Tis here with boundless power I reign; I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! I fly from Falsehood's specious grin; Freedom I love, and form I hate, And choose my lodgings at an inn. Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lacqueys else might hope to win; Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round, The warmest welcome at an inn. 5 ΙΟ 15 20 HOPE PART II OF A PASTORAL BALLAD My banks they are furnished with bees, And my hills are white over with sheep. Such health do my fountains bestow; Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But a sweet-brier entwines it around. One would think she might like to retire Already it calls for my love, To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands and groves, What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. I have found out a gift for my fair; 25 30 I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: 35 But let me that plunder forbear, She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averred, Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I loved her the more when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. a dove: I have heard her with sweetness unfold And she called it the sister of love. Methinks I should love her the more. 40 45 50 55 60 Can a bosom so gentle remain Unmoved, when her Corydon sighs? Soft scenes of contentment and ease? But where does my Phillida stray? And where are her grots and her bowers? And the shepherds as gentle as ours? And the face of the valleys as fine; But their love is not equal to mine. EDWARD YOUNG FROM NIGHT THOUGHTS NIGHT I TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; From short (as usual) and disturbed repose, I wake: how happy they, who wake no more! Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought, At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, The day too short for my distress; and night, Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, 5 ΙΟ 15 20 |