Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique; Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring Sounded irregular marches, to be gone- Had cater'd well, if stomach could digest That manly limb requir'd, and sinews tough. She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote, Amid the gloomy scene of fir and yew, On ample ground; where Morpheus strew'd the bed : Obscurity her curtain round me drew, And syren Sloth a dull quietus sung. Sithence no fairy sights, no quick'ning ray, No stir of pulse, nor objects to entice Abroad the spirits; but the cloyster'd heart Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again. The same trite round, the same stale silent scene: But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind, Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams; Were happy crawling on a southern wall. Why sits Content upon a cottage sill At even-tide; and blesseth the coarse meal In sooty corner? why sweet slumbers wait Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote, Sequester'd in a dingle's bushy lap : 'Tis labour makes the peasant's sav'ry fare, And works out his repose: for ease must ask The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd. Oh! listen not to that enchantress Ease With seeming smile; her palatable cup By standing grows insipid; and beware Perdition, for there's poison in the lees. What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd! What tho' with lure fallacious she pretend From worldly bondage to set free; what gain Her votaries? What avails from iron chains Exempt, if rosy fetters bind as fast? Bestir, and answer your creation's end. Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd, And room to stretch, was destin'd to sit still? Sluggards are Nature's rebels, slight her laws, Nor live up to the terms on which they hold Their vital lease. Laborious terms and hard! But such the tenure of our earthly state! Riches and fame are industry's reward; The nimble runner courses Fortune down, And then he banquets, for she feeds the bold. Think what you owe your country, what yourself, If splendor charm not, yet avoid the scorn Assiduous booby mounting o'er your head, Time Has golden minutes, if discreetly seiz'd: Think that To warn and scare be wanting-think of me. EPISTLE XVIII. ΤΟ His Friend and Neighbour DR. THOMAS TAYLOR. WRITTEN IN MDCC XLIV. By the Same. FRENCH pow'r, and weak allies, and war, and want― No more of that, my friend; you touch a string That hurts my ear. All politics apart, Except a gen'rous wish, a glowing pray'r A phantom sound, by which the cunning great Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in crystal lakes. |