Imágenes de página
PDF
ePub

Reclaim the wand'ring thousands, and bring home
A flock fo fcatter'd and fo wont to roam,
Then place it once again between my knees,
The found of truth will then be sure to please,
And truth alone, where'er my life be caft,
In fcenes of plenty or the pining waste,
Shall be my chosen theme, my glory to the last.

HOPE.

HOPE.

doceas iter et facra oftia pandas.

VIRG. EN. 6.

ASK what is human life—the fage replies

With difappointment low'ring in his eyes,
A painful paffage o'er a restless flood,
A vain pursuit of fugitive falfe good,
A fcene of fancied blifs and heart-felt care,
Closing at last in darkness and despair.—
The poor, inur'd to drudg'ry and distress,
Act without aim, think little and feel lefs,
And no where but in feign'd Arcadian scenes,
Tafte happiness, or know what pleasure means.
Riches are pass'd away from hand to hand,

As fortune, vice or folly may command;

As

As in a dance the pair that take the lead
Turn downward, and the lowest pair succeed,
So fhifting and fo various is the plan

By which Heav'n rules the mixt affairs of man;
Viciffitude wheels round the motley crowd,

The rich grow poor, the poor become purse-proud;
Bus'nefs is labour, and man's weakness fuch,
Pleasure is labour too, and tires as much,
The very fenfe of it foregoes its use,
By repetition pall'd, by age obtufe.
Youth loft in diffipation, we deplore

Through life's fad remnant, what no fighs restore.
Our years, a fruitless race without a prize,
Too many, yet too few to make us wife.
Dangling his cane about, and taking snuff,
Lothario cries, what philofophic stuff.

Oh querulous and weak! whofe useless brain.
Once thought of nothing, and now thinks in vain,
Whose eye reverted weeps o'er all the past,

Whose profpect shows thee a difheart'ning waste;
Would age in thee refign his wintry reign,
And youth invigorate that frame again,
Renew'd defire would grace with other speech
Joys always priz'd, when plac'd within our reach.
For lift thy palfied head, shake off the gloom

That overhangs the borders of thy tomb,

See

See nature gay as when the first began,
With fmiles alluring her admirer, man;
She spreads the morning over eastern hills,
Earth glitters with the drops the night diftils;
The fun, obedient at her call, appears

To fling his glories o'er the robe she wears;
Banks cloath'd with flow'rs, groves fill'd with sprightly

founds,

The yellow tilth, green meads, rocks, rifing grounds,
Streams edg'd with ofiers, fatt'ning ev'ry field

Where'er they flow, now feen and now conceal'd;
From the blue rim where fkies and mountains meet,
Down to the very turf beneath thy feet,
Ten thousand charms that only fools defpife,
Or pride can look at with indiff'rent eyes,
All speak one language, all with one sweet voice
Cry to her universal realm, rejoice.
Man feels the spur of paffions and defires,
And the gives largely more than he requires;
Not that his hours devoted all to care,
Hollow-ey'd abftinence and lean despair,

The wretch may pine, while to his fmell, taste, fight,
She holds a paradife of rich delight;

But gently to rebuke his aukward fear,

To
prove
that what she gives, the gives fincere,
To banish hesitation, and proclaim

His happiness, her dear, her only aim.

'Tis

'Tis grave philofophy's abfurdeft dream,

That Heav'n's intentions are not what they feem,
That only shadows are difpens'd below,

And earth has no reality but woe.

Thus things terrestrial wear a diff'rent hue,
As youth or age perfuades, and neither true;
So Flora's wreath through colour'd chrystal seen,
The rofe or lily appears blue or green,
But ftill th' imputed tints are thofe alone
The medium reprefents, and not their own.
To rife at noon, fit flipfhod and undress'd,
To read the news, or fiddle, as seems best,
"Till half the world comes rattling at his door,
To fill the dull vacuity 'till four;

And just when evening turns the blue vault grey,
To spend two hours in dreffing for the day;
To make the fun a bauble without use,
Save for the fruits his heav'nly beams produce;
Quite to forget, or deem it worth no thought,
Who bids him fhine, or if he fhine or not;
Through mere necessity to close his eyes

Juft when the larks and when the shepherds rife,
Is fuch a life, fo tedioufly the fame,

So void of all utility or aim,

That poor JONQUIL, with almost ev'ry breath

Sighs for his exit, vulgarly call'd, death:

For

« AnteriorContinuar »