O Muse! who rulest each melodious lay
That floats along the gilded shell,
Who the mute tenant of the watry way
Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel
The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings,
When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.
Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide
The Stranger's eye, with proud desire
That well he note the Man, whom Crowds decide
Should boldly string the Latian lyre.—
Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine,
Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory THINE!
TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esq.
BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED.
The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute,
Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide,
And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot,
And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide.
Beauty, and Love, the blissful change have hail'd,
While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead,
[1]Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil'd,
Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead.
But O! reflect, that Sport, and Beauty, wing
Th' unpausing Hour!—if Winter, cold and pale,
Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring,
Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale.
Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away
When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves;
While she, as Winter reassumes his sway,
Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.
But a short space the Moon illumes the skies;
Yet she repairs her wanings, and again
Silvers the vault of Night;—but no supplies,
To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain.
When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keep
Where Collins, Akenside, and Shenstone roam,
Or quiet with the Despot, Johnson, sleep,
In that murk cell, the Body's final home,