What if thine heav'n be overcaft, The dark appearance will not last, The God that ftrings the filver bow, Awakes fometimes the mufes too, And lays his arrows by. 6. If hindrances obftru&t thy way, And let thy ftrength be feen, But oh! if Fortune fill thy fail A REFLECTION on the foregoing ODE. AND is this all? Can reafon do no more Than bid me fhun the deep and dread the fhore? Sweet Sweet moralift! afloat on life's rough fea Tranflations from VINCENT BOURNE. 1. THE G LOW-W OR M, I. BENEATH the hedge, or near the ftream, A worm is known to ftray; That fhews by night a lucid beam, Disputes have been and ftill prevail Some give that honour to his tail, And others to his head. 3. But this is fure-the hand of might That kindles up the skies, Gives him a modicum of light, Proportion'd to his fize. 4. Perhaps indulgent nature meant To bid the trav'ler, as he went, Be careful where he trod : 5. Nor crush a worm, whofe ufeful light To fhew a ftumbling ftone by night, And fave him from a fall. 6. Whate'er fhe meant, this truth divine Is legible and plain, 'Tis power almighty bids him fhine, Nor bids him shine in vain. Ye 7. Ye proud and wealthy, let this theme Teach humbler thoughts to you, Since fuch a reptile has its gem, And boasts its fplendour too. 2. THE JACK DAW. I. THERE is a bird who by his coat, And by the hoarseness of his note, Might be fuppos'd a crow; A great frequenter of the church, And dormitory too. 2. Above the steeple fhines a plate, That turns and turns, to indicate From what point blows the weather; Look up your brains begin to fwim, 'Tis in the clouds-that pleases him, He chooses it the rather. 3. Fond of the fpeculative height, And thence fecurely fees The bustle and the raree-show That occupy mankind below, Secure and at his eafe. 4. You think no doubt he fits and mufes On future broken bones and bruifes, If he should chance to fall; No not a single thought like that Ór troubles it at all. 5. He fees that this great roundabout The world, with all its motley rout, Church, army, phyfic, law, Its cuftoms and its bufineffes Are no concern at all of his, And fays, what fays he? Caw. |