1. THE GOLDEN TREASURY BOOK THIRD ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft Till April starts, and calls around The sleeping fragrance from the ground, New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: CLII. 5 10 But chief, the sky-lark warbles high And lessening from the dazzled sight, 15 Yesterday the suilen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; The herd stood drooping by : 20 Smiles on past misfortune's brow While hope prolongs our happier hour Still, where rosy pleasure leads, And blended form, with artful strife, See the wretch that long has tost 2. 25 30 35 40 The meanest floweret of the vale, 45 The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, T. Gray CLIII. ODE TO SIMPLICITY O Thou, by Nature taught To breathe her genuine thought In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong; Who first, on mountains wild, In Fancy, loveliest child, Thy babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song! Thou, who with hermit heart, And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall, But com'st, a decent maid In Attic robe array'd, O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call! 5 10 15 20 By all the honey'd store On Hybla's thymy shore, By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear; By her whose love-lorn woe In evening musings slow Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear: By old Cephisus deep, Who spread his wavy sweep In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat; On whose enamell'd side, When holy freedom died, No equal haunt allured thy future feet :— O sister meek of Truth, To my admiring youth Thy sober aid and native charms infuse ! While Rome could none esteem Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues. 30 You loved her hills, and led her laureat band; To one distinguish'd throne; 35 And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land. No more, in hall or bower, The passions own thy power; Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean : 40 Nor olive more, nor vine, Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene. Though taste, though genius, bless To some divine excess, Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; 45 What each, what all supply May court, may charm our eye ; Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul ! Of these let others ask To aid some mighty task; I only seek to find thy temperate vale; 50 |