Yet will the lark, in iron cage inthrall'd,
Chaunt forth her hymn to greet the morning sun,
As wide his brilliant beam
Illumes the landskip round;
As distant 'mid the woodland haunts is heard
The feather'd quire, she chaunts her prison'd hymn,
And hails the beam of joy,
Of joy to her denied.
Friend to each noblest feeling of the soul,
To thee I hymn, for every joy is thine;
And every virtue comes
To join thy generous train.
Lur'd by the splendor of thy beamy torch,
Beacon of bliss, young love expands his plumes,
And leads his willing slaves
To wear thy flowery bands;
And then he yields the follies of his reign,
Throws down the torch that scorches up the soul,
And lights the purer flame
That glows serene with thee.
And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest sway
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter beam
The fading flame of love,
The fading flame of life.
Parent of every bliss! the busy soul
Of Fancy oft will paint, in brightest hues,
How calm, how clear, thy torch
Illumes the wintry hour;
Will paint the wearied labourer, at that hour
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil,
Returning blithely home
To each domestic joy;
Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal
Prepar'd by fond solicitude to please,
The ruddy children round
That climb the father's knee:
And oft will Fancy rise above the lot
Of honest poverty, oft paint the state
Where happiest man is blest
With mediocrity;