At frequent periods woo th' inspiring Band
Before thy days their summer-course have run,
While, with clos'd shears, the fatal Sisters stand,
Nor aim to cut the brilliant thread they spun.
Precarious Tenant of that gay Retreat,
Fann'd by pure gales on Hampstead's airy downs,
Where filial troops for thee delighted wait,
And their fair Mother's smile thy banquet crowns!
Precarious Tenant!—shortly thou may'st leave
These, and propitious Fortune's golden hoard;
Then spare not thou the stores, that shall receive,
When set thy orb, a less illustrious Lord.
What can it then avail thee that thy pleas
Charm'd every ear with Tully's periods bland?
Or that the subject Passions they could seize,
And with the thunder of the Greek command?
What can it then avail thee that thy fame
Threw tenfold lustre on thy noble Line?
Since neither birth, nor self-won glory, claim
One hour's exemption from the sable shrine.
E'en now thy lot shakes in the Urn, whence Fate
Throws her pale edicts in reverseless doom!
Each issues in its turn, or soon, or late,
And lo! the great Man's prize!—a silent Tomb!
[1]: The Author had the pleasure of passing a fortnight with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine at Buxton in August 1796.
TO BARINE.
BOOK THE SECOND, ODE THE EIGHTH.
Barine, to thy always broken vows
Were slightest punishment ordain'd;
Hadst thou less charming been
By one grey hair upon thy polish'd brows;
If but a single tooth were stain'd,
A nail discolour'd seen,
Then might I nurse the hope that, faithful grown,
The Future might, at length, the guilty Past atone.