« PreviousContinue »
ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM
Left unfinished by Mr. Gray. With Additions, in Italics, by the late Rev. Mr. Mason.]
Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet; Forgetful of their wintry trance The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the Sky-Lark warbles high
Rise, my Soul! on wings of fire,
Rise the rapt'rous Choir among; Hark! 'tis Nature strikes the Lyre,
And leads the general song:
And animates the vernal grove
Yesterday the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday, nor morrow know; 'Tis Man alone that joy descries With forward, and reverted eyes.
Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;
While Hope prolongs our happier hour, Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,
See a kindred Grief pursue;
The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
See the Wretch, that long has tost
The meanest floweret of the vale,
Humble Quiet builds her cell,
Near the source whence Pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well,
And tastes it as it goes.
While far below the madding Crowd
Mark where Indolence, and Pride,
Sooth'd by Flattery's tinkling sound,
Their dull, but daily round:
So Milton accents the word:
"On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron'd."