« ZurückWeiter »
Labour with thee forgets his pain, And aged Poverty can smile with thee,
If thou be nigh, Grief's hate is vain,
And weak th’ uplifted arm of Tyranny.
The Morning opes on high
His universal eye;
And on the world doth pour
His glories in a golden shower,
Lo! Darkness trembling 'fore the hostile ray
Shrinks to the cavern deep and wood forlorn:
The brood obscene, that own her gloomy sway, Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale shivering ghosts, that dread th' all-cheering light,
(night. Quick, as the lightning's flash, glide, to sepulchral
But whence the gladdening beam
That pours his purple stream
O'er the long prospect wide ?
"Tis Mirth. I see her sit
In majesty of light,
With Laughter at her side.
Bright ey'd Fancy hovering near
Wide waves her glancing wing in air ;
And young Wit flings his pointed dart,
Phat guiltless strikes the willing heart.
Fear not now Affiction's power,
Fear not now wild Passion's rage,
Nor fear ye ou
in evil hour, Save the tardy hand of Age. Now Mirth hath heard the suppliant poet's prayer: No cloud that rides the blast shall vex the troubledy air.
On Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love;
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th’ Arcadian plain.
Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave
My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source ;
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o’er its bed,
With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread ;
While, lightly pois'd the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout, in speckled pride ;
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war;
The silver eel, and mottled par.
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine,
And edges flower'd with eglantine.
Still on thy banks, so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,
And shepherds piping in the dale,
And ancient Faith that knows no guile,
And Industry, imbrown'd with toil,
And heart resolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The blessings they enjoy to guard. Smollet.
OPPRESS'd with grief, oppress’d with care,
A burden more than I can bear,
I sit me down and sigh:
O life! thou art a galling load,
Along a rough, a weary road,
To wretches such I.
Dim backward as I cast my view,
What sickening scenes appear !
What sorrows yet may pierce me through,
Too justly I may fear!
Still caring, despairing,
Must be my bitter doom;
My woes here shall close ne'er,
But with the closing tomb!
Happy, ye sons of busy life,
Who, equal to the bustling strife,
No other view regard !
Ev'n when the wished end's denied,
Yet while the busy means are plied,
They bring their own reward :
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight,
Unfitted with an aim, Meet
every sad returning night And joyless morn the same, You bustling, and justling,
Forget each grief and pain;
I listless, yet restless,
How bless'd the solitary's lot,
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot,
Within his humble cell,
The cavern wild with tangling roots,
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits,
Beside his crystal well!
Or, haply, to his evening thought,
By unfrequented stream,
The ways of men are distant brought,
A faint collected dream:
While praising, and raising
His thoughts to Heav'n on high,
As wandering, meandering,
He views the solemn sky-
Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd
Where never human footstep trac’d,
Less fit to play the part:
The lucky moment to improve,
And just to stop, and just to move,
With self-respecting art:
But ah! those pleasures, loves and joys,
Which I too keenly taste,
The solitary can despise,
Can want, and yet be bless'd !
He needs not, he heeds not,
Or human love or hate,
Whilst I here must cry here,
At perfidy ingrate!
Oh! enviable, early days,
When dancing thoughless pleasure's maze,
To care, to guilt unknown!
How ill excliang’d for riper times,
To feel the follies, or the crimes,
Of others, or my own!
Ye tiny elves, that guiltless sport,
Like linnets in the bush,
Ye little know the ills ye court,
When manhood is your wish!
The losses, the crosses,
That active man engage!
The fears all, the tears all,
Of dim-declining age!
HORACE, BOOK II. ODE X.
Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse Fortune's pow'r;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep
Along the treach'rous shore.
He, that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between
The little and the great,
Feels not the wants, that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues, that haunt the rich man's door,
Imbitt'ring all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tow'r
Comes heaviest to the ground ;
The bolts, that spare the mountain's side,
His cloudcapt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.