But soon his rhetoric forsook him, He stood as mute as poor Macleane. Yet something he was heard to mutter, "How in the park beneath an old tree, (Without design to hurt the butter, Or any malice to the poultry,) "He once or twice had penned a sonnet; The ghostly prudes with hagged face She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. "Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean?” (Cried the square-hoods in woful fidget) "The times are altered quite and clean! “Decorum 's turned to mere civility; [Here five hundred stanzas are lost.] And so God save our noble king, And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my Lady from her rubbers. POSTHUMOUS POEMS AND FRAGMENTS. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Melts into air and liquid light. Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, Rise the rapturous choir among; Hark! 't is Nature strikes the lyre, Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; 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, Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, See the wretch, that long has tost 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 'Rush headlong to the dangerous flood,' Where broad and turbulent it sweeps, 'And' perish in the boundless deeps. Mark where Indolence and Pride, 'Soothed by Flattery's tinkling sound,' Go, softly rolling, side by side, Their dull but daily round : 'To these, if Hebe's self should bring 'Mark Ambition's march sublime Up to Power's meridian height; Phantoms of danger, death, and dread, From the pangs of passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air Of rugged penury. He, when his morning task is done, 'He, unconscious whence the bliss, From toil he wins his spirits light, In Heaven's best treasures, peace and health.' TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE FROM STATIUS. THEB. LIB. VI. THEN thus the King: Adrastus: Whoe'er the quoit can wield, And furthest send its weight athwart the field, |