But let me chase those vows away Those anxious moments, ill repaid; Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, While innocence allow'd to waste! But, ah! for pleasure yield us pain! WRITTEN TOWARDS THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1748. TO WILLIAM LYTTELTON, ESQ. How blithely pass'd the summer's day! How bright was every flow'r! While friends arriv'd, in circles gay, To visit Damon's bow'r! But now, with silent step, I range And Damon's bower (alas the change!) Away to crowds and cities borne, To weep the parting year! Ah! let me not, with heavy eye, Ill can I bear the motley cast At home unbless'd, I gaze around, Though Thomson, sweet descriptive bard! Yet how should he the months regard Ah! luckless months, of all the rest, And see, the swallows now disown The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright, While hounds, and horns, and yells, unite Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown, Too much we feel from Fortune's frown Where is the mead's unsullied green? And where sweet Friendship's cordial mien, What though the vine disclose her dyes, Can soothe our sorrows more. He! he is gone, whose moral strain Fast by the streams he deign'd to praise, To him a votive urn I raise, To him and friendly Love. Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad, There shall my plaintive song recount There leaves, in spite of Autumn green, But no kind suns will bid me share, AN IRREGULAR ODE, AFTER SICKNESS, 1749. -Melius, cum venerit ipsa, canemus. His wish'd-for presence will improve the song. Too long a stranger to repose, At length from Pain's abhorred couch I rose, And wander'd forth alone, To court once more the balmy breeze, 'Twas from a bank with pansies gay O Sun! how pleasing were thy rays, Rais'd by the scene, my feeble tongue And thus in feeble strains, and slow, 'Come, gentle Air! my languid limbs restore, And bid me welcome from the Stygian shore; For sure I heard the tender sighs, I seem❜d to join the plaintive cries Of hapless youths, who through the myrtle grove Bewail for ever their unfinish'd love; To that unjoyous clime, Torn from the sight of these ethereal skies, And banish'd in their prime. 'Come, gentle Air! and, while the thickets bloom, Convey the jasmine's breath divine, Convey the woodbine's rich perfume, The sons of Earth, the vulgar crew, Anxious for futile gains, beneath me stray, [way. And seek with erring step Contentment's obvious 'Come, gentle Air! and thou, celestial Muse! Thy genial flame infuse, Enough to lend a pensive bosom aid, And gild Retirement's gloomy shade; Enough to rear such rustic lays As foes may slight, but partial friends will praise.' |