When toil, no longer irksome and constrain'd
By hard necessity, but comes to please,
To vary the still hour
Of tranquil happiness.
Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress sweet!
Soothe sad reality
With visionary bliss?
Ah! rather gaze where science' hallow'd light
Resplendent shines: ah! rather lead thy son
Through all her mystic paths
To drink the sacred spring.
Let calm philosophy supply the void,
And fill the vacant heart; lead calmly on
Along the unvaried path,
To age's drear abode;
And teach how dreadful death to happiness,
What thousand horrors wait the last adieu,
When every tie is broke,
And every charm dissolv'd.
Then only dreadful; friendly to the wretch
Who wanes in solitary listlessness,
Nor knows the joys of life,
Nor knows the dread of death.
BION.
HOSPITALITY.
"Lay low yon impious trappings on the ground,
Bend, superstition, bend thy haughty head,
Be mine supremacy, and mine alone:"
Thus from his firm-establish'd throne,
Replete with vengeful fury, Henry said.
High Reformation lifts her iron rod,
But lo! with stern and threatful mien,
Fury and rancour desolate the scene,
Beneath their rage the Gothic structures nod.
Ah! hold awhile your angry hands;
Ah! here delay your king's commands,
For Hospitality will feel the wound!
In vain the voice of reason cries,
Whilst uncontroul'd the regal mandate flies.