STROPHE. In Fortune's car behold that minion ride, With either India's glittering spoils oppress'd: So moves the sumpter-mule, in harness'd pride, That bears the treasure which he cannot taste. For him let venal bards disgrace the bay, And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay; And all her jingling bells fantastic Folly ring; Disquiet, Doubt, and Dread shall intervene; And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every scene, Shook from the baleful pinions of Disgust. ANTISTROPHE. Nature I'll court in her sequester'd haunts By mountain, meadow, streamlet, grove, or cell, Where the poised lark his evening ditty chants, And Health, and Peace, and Contemplation dwell. There Study shall with Solitude recline; And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains; And Toil and Temperance sedately twine The slender cord that fluttering Life sustains: And Sleep, unbribed, his dews refreshing shed: TO MIRTH. PARENT of joy! heart-easing Mirth! So shall each hill, in purer green array'd, And, flower-adorn'd, in new-born beauty glow; The grove shall smooth the horrors of the shade, And streams in murmurs shall forget to flow Shine, goddess, shine with unremitted ray, And gild (a second sun) with brighter beam our day. Labour with thee forgets his pain, And aged Poverty can smile with thee; If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain, And weak the' uplifted arm of Tyranny. The Morning opes on high His universal eye; And on the world doth pour His glories in a golden shower! Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray, Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn: The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway Troop in her rear, and fly the' approach of morn. Pale shivering ghosts, that dread the' all-cheering light, Quick as the lightning's flash glide to sepulchral night. But whence the gladdening beam That pours his purple stream O'er the long prospect wide? 'Tis Mirth. I see her sit With Laughter at her side. Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant Poet's prayer; TO SLEEP. SOFT Sleep, profoundly pleasing power, O, listen from thy calm abode, Extend thy silent, soothing sway, Of gentle dreams and smiles of joy, TO LEVEN-WATER. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; 1 The par is a small fish, not unlike the smelt, which it rivals ir delicacy and flavour. Still on thy banks, so gaily green, "May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale, And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry imbrown'd with toil, And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard. WHEN the rough North forgets to howl, No more shall flowers the meads adorn; No more shall joy in hope be found; When rolling seasons cease to change, When lavish May no more shall bloom, BURLESQUE ODE.1 WHERE wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate To drive the dismal phantom from the door. Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain Nor dusty Pimlico's embowering shades; Beset with rowers dank; Nor where the' Exchange pours forth its tawny sons; Nor where the Mint's contaminated kennel runs: Ill doth it now beseem, That thou shouldst doze and dream, When Death in mortal armour came, And struck with ruthless dart the gentle dame. Her liberal hand and sympathizing breast The brute creation kindly bless'd: Where'er she trod grimalkin purr'd around, Nor to the waddling duck or gabbling goose. The strutting cock she daily fed, Of chickens careful as the pious hen, Nor did she overlook the tomtit or the wren; For my distracted mind, What comfort can I find? 1 Dr. Smollett imagining himself ill treated by Lord Lyttelton, wrote the above burlesque on that nobleman's monody on the death of his lady. |