ODE XV. ON BREAKING A CHINA QUART MUG. BELONGING TO THE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN COLLEGE, OXFORD. BY AN UNDER-GRADUATE. AMPHORA NON MERUIT TAM PRETIOSA MORI. WHENE'ER the cruel hand of Death Untimely stops a fav'rite's breath, Muses in plaintive numbers tell How lov'd he liv'd-how mourn'd he fell : Catullus 'wail'd his sparrow's fate, And Gray immortaliz'd his cat. Thrice tuneful Bards! could I but chime so clever, My Quart, my honest Quart, should live for ever. How weak is all a mortal's pow'r, For when life's lengthen'd to its longest span, Can I forget how oft my Quart Has sooth'd my care, and warm'd my heart? And all its liquid charms display'd! The pleasing depth I view'd with sparkling eyes, The side-board, on that fatal day, Where are the flow'ry wreaths that bound And blossom'd with eternal blue ? 'Trees, stars, and flow'rs, are scatter'd on the floor, And all thy brittle beauties are no more. Hadst thou been form'd of coarser earth, Had Nottingham but giv'n thee birth, Of Staffords' sable hue been dy'd, Thy stately fabric had been sound, Tho' tables tumbled on the ground.The finest mould the soonest will decay; Hear this, ye Fair! for you yourselves are clay, ODE XVI. AN INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE. WRITTEN AT CLAVERTON, NEAR BATH, BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES. AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows, Ye gentle warblers, hither fly, And shun the noon-tide heat My shrubs a cooling shade supply, My groves a safe retreat. Here freely hop from spray to spray, Or weave the mossy nest; Here rove, and sing, the live-long day, At night here sweetly rest. Amid this cool translucent rill, That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill, And revel in the shade. No school-boy rude, to mischief prone, E'er shews his ruddy face, Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone, Hither the vocal Thrush repairs, The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares, Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt, Yon distant woods among; And round my friendly grotto chaunt Thy sweetly-plaintive song. Let not the harmless Red-breast fear, Domestic bird, to come, And seek a sure asylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees for you, ye artless tribe, For you these cherries I protect, To you these plumbs belong ; Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd, But sweeter far your song. |