And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around them wait,
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah! tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning infamy ;

The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, And moody Madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo! in the vale of years beneath,

A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage;

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his sufferings; all are men
Condemn'd alike to groan:
The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate,
Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their paradise-
No more! Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.

238. THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

I.

Awake, Æolian lyre! awake,

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings!
From Helicon's harmonious springs

A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign;
Now rolling down the steep amain,

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,

Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting Shell! the sullen Cares

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.

On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command:

Perching on the sceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.

Thee the voice, the dance obey,

Temper'd to thy warbled lay;

O'er India's velvet green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, On Cytherea's day,

With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures
Frisking light in frolic measures:

Now pursuing, now retreating,
Now in circling trcops they meet;

To brisk notes in cadence beating,
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare;
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay;
With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way;
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.

Man's feeble race what ills await!

Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The fond complaint, my Song! disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?

Night and all her sickly dews,

Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry,

He gives to range the dreary sky,

Till down the eastern cliffs afar

Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

In climes beyond the Solar road,

Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom

To cheer the shivering native's dull abode;
And oft beneath the odorous shade

Of Chili's boundless forests laid,

She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat,

In loose numbers, wildly sweet,

Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,

Glory pursue, and generous Shame,

The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep,
Isles that crown the Ægean deep,
Fields that cool Ilissus laves,
Or where Meander's amber waves
In lingering labyrinths creep,

How do your tuneful echoes languish,
Mute but to the voice of Anguish?
Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breathed around;
Every shade and hallow'd fountain
Murmur'd deep a solemn sound,
Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour,

Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains,
Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power

And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,

They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.

Far from the sun and summer-gale,

In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her awful face; the dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.

This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year;

Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy,

Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.

Nor second He that rode sublime

Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy;
The secrets of the abyss to spy,

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time;
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,

Where angels tremble while they gaze,

He saw; but blasted with excess of light,

Closed his eyes in endless night.

Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car

Wide o'er the fields of glory bear

Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace.

Hark! his hands the lyre explore!

Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,

Scatters from her pictured urn

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more.

'Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,

Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye afford

A tear to grace his obsequies!

Is the sable warrior fled?—

Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born,
Gone to salute the rising morn;

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm,
In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes,

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

'Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare!

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast.

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon the baffled guest.

Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,

And through the kindred squadrons mow their way;
Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the Rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread;
The bristled Boar in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade;

Now, Brothers! bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.

'Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof, the thread is spun !)

Half of thy heart we consecrate;

(The web is wove, the work is done!')

'Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn,

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,

They melt, they vanish from my eyes.