And ye, that from the stately brow Of WINDSOR's heights th' expanfe below Of grove, of lawn, of mead furvey, Whose turf, whofe fhade, whofe flowers among As waving fresh their gladfome wing, And, *redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father THAMES, for thou hast seen Full many a fprightly race Difporting on thy margent green The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave And bees their honey redolent of spring. Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. Syftem. C 2 The The captive linnet which enthrall? What idle progeny fucceed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? While fome on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainft graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers difdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare defcry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And fnatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as foon as fhed, The funfhine of the breast : Theirs buxom health of rofy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new, And lively chear of vigour born; That fly th' approach of morn. |