No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky The modest virtues dwell. Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years, A vista to the sky. There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide, That rarely ebb or flow; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Her influence taught the Phrygian sage Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, He bow'd his meek submitted head, But thou, Q Nymph retir'd and coy! The lowliest children of the ground, O say what soft propitious hour When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, And When Eve, her dewy star beneath, Low whispering through the shade. ODE TO MORNING. [ANON.] THE sprightly messenger of day Far hence retire, O Night! thy praise, When thine own spheres expire, thy name, Immortalized by Young. See, while I speak, Aurora sheds And meets th' accustom'd toil. Day's monarch comes to bless the year, Along th' ethereal road; Plenty and Health attend his beams, Aw'd by the view, my soul reveres Hark! the awaken'd grove repays And echo spreads the strain; The streams in grateful murmurs run, While Nature thus her charms displays, Let me enjoy the fragrant breeze The opening flowers diffuse; Temp'rance and Innocence attend, These are your haunts, your influence lend, Associates of the Muse! Riot, and Guilt, and wasting Care, And fell Revenge, and black Despair, Nor beams the sun, nor blooms the rose, Along the mead, and in the wood, She gives the landscape power to charm, The wise and generous breast. Happy the man! whose tranquil mind The varying year may shift the scene, The sounding trumpet lash the main, And Heav'n's own thunders roll; Calmly he views the bursting storm, Tempests nor thunder can deform The morning of his soul. |