Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd, DIRGE IN CYMBELINE 110 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: 40 50 Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate, And black misfortune's baleful train! Ah, shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Ambition this shall tempt to rise, The stings of Falsehood those shall try, Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 |