And when the cheerful morn
The watchful cock proclaims aloud,
Light fly his slumbers, as a cloud,
Reflected by the noonday sun,
On wings of light is borne;
No head-ach veils, in mantle dun,
The peasant's happy morn.
Goddess of sweet repose!
When toil invites my limbs to rest,
With thy warm pinions shield my breast;
Breathe through my lips thy kindest dreams,
My willing eyelids close,
And as the peasant's slumber seems,
Be such my sound repose.
On seeing a Foxhunter painted with a Book in his Hand.
LET Poets and Painters their fancy pursue,
So they keep probability always in view;
But what censure does that silly fellow require
Who has painted a book in the hands of a squire ?
ACT I.-CHORUS OF SHEPHERDS.
HAPPY, happy age of gold!
-Not because in copious stream,
Rich the milky rivers roll'd;
-Not because with luscious gleam,
Honey from the woods distill'd;
While along the unfurrowed plain,
Spontaneous wav'd the golden grain;
And no black envenom'd snake,
Hissing from the tangled brake,
The reaper's heart with horror thrill'd;
-Not because no dark'ning cloud
Sail'd along the blue serene;
But smiling Spring on earth bestow'd
A vesture of eternal green;
-Nor yet because no vent'rous bark convey'd
The fierce assault of war, or trickful arts of trade:
But because that empty name—
Error's idol-gaudy cheat
Rais'd by the vulgar breath to Fame
The gilded goddess of deceit;
HONOUR, the tyrant of our joys,
O Pleasure! in thy mantling bowl,
Whose taste exhilarates the soul,
Infus'd no bitter dregs of pain;
But, free from care, the amorous train,
Enraptur'd, clasp'd the beauteous prize.
Then, from rigorous trammels free,
From bliss to bliss the shepherds rov'd,
And sung the sweets of Liberty:
Loving still-and still belov'd-
No cold restraint congeal'd the soul with awe,
Instinct their only guide, and Will their only law.
Then, tripping o'er the fragrant flow'rs,
By the murmuring rivulet's side,
While frolic wing'd the passing hours,
And through the mazy dance they hy'd,
The lovelings bore no fatal bow-
No blazing torch they wav'd around-
But seated on th' enamell'd ground,
Nymphs and swains in pairs array'd,
Gently breath'd the ardent vow;
-Murmurs bland, caresses kind,
Melting looks provoke the bliss,
While lips of coral, thrice refin'd,
Imbibe the soft tenacious kiss:
No envious stole the virgin's beauties shade,
-One glassy fountain laves the youth and sportive
maid.
But never, never to return!
Too soon is fled this blissful age!
-With amorous thirst, when lovers burn,
And fancy kindles into rage,
Seal'd is the fountain of delight.
-Aw'd by HONOUR'S Stern controul,
The lips no longer breathe the soul;
No longer from the eye of fire,
Beams the glance of fond desire,
Blazing with resistless light.
The locks that floated on the breeze,
No longer wanton unconfin'd;
Restrain'd, the nameless winning ways,
The index of the melting mind;
Relentless HONOUR! by thy stern command,
Furtive and scant the joys once dealt with lib'ral hand.
Author of our bitterest pains
Tyrant of Nature-bane of Love-
Wherefore, 'mid the rural plains,
Thy sway should simple shepherds prove?
Haste! away! with turbid dream
Distract the slumbers of the great,
And pall the joys of kingly state:
-But let Nature's darling child,
The tenant of the Sylvan wild,
Sail smoothly down Time's rapid stream:
Our moments speed their hasty flight,
And brief is life's uncertain day;
Then let us snatch the dear delight,
And taste Love's raptures while we may.
The setting sun remounts the Eastern wave-
But, ah! no sun illumes the darkness of the grave,
Ingeniis non ille favet plauditque sepultis,
Nostra sed impugnat.
SAGE Hegesistratus hath said,
That poor blind Homer begg'd his bread,
And few, till death had stopt his tongue,
Or knew, or car'd how well he sung;
But when his bones were laid in earth,
Five cities wrangled for his birth:
So went the ancient world, and so
The world to the world's end will go.
No man his neighbour's worth can spy,
Whilst he himself stands gaping by ;
For it wou'd vex a saint to see
How happy the vain thing wou'd be:
But let him die, and then we raise
His monument, and sing his praise;
Then Bacon carves the immortal bust,
When its original is dust.
But for these arts the sons of rhime
Wou'd lead the Muse a weary time,
Tippling their Helicon all day,
If no one dash'd their cup away,
Till grown pot-valiant and stout,
They'd kick this foot-ball world about,
And seize the magisterial chair,
Tho' beadle Criticism there
In dignity of dulness sits,
And keeps a whipping-post for wits.
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