CXIX.

THOMAS PARnell, 1679-1718.

M

SONG.

Y days have been so wond'rous free,
The little birds that fly

With careless ease from tree to tree,

Were but as blest as I.

Ask gliding waters, if a tear

Of mine increased their stream?

Or ask the flying gales, if e'er
I lent one sigh to them?

But now my former days retire,
And I'm by beauty caught,
The tender chains of sweet desire
Are fixed upon my thought.

Ye nightingales, ye twisting pines!
Ye swains that haunt the grove !
Ye gentle echoes, breezy winds!
Ye close retreats of love!

With all of nature, all of art,
Assist the dear design;

O teach a young, unpractised heart,
To make my Nancy mine.

The very thought of change I hate, As much as of despair;

Nor ever covet to be great,

Unless it be for her.

'Tis true, the passion in my

mind

Is mixed with soft distress; Yet while the fair I love is kind,

I cannot wish it less.

CXX.

POLYPHEME'S SONG.

JOHN GAY, 1688-1732.

RUDDIER than the cherry!

O sweeter than the berry!

O nymph more bright

Than moonshine night,

Like kidlings, blithe and merry!

Ripe as the melting cluster,

No lily has such lustre ;

Yet hard to tame

As raging flame,

CXXI.

ALEXANDER POPE, 1688-1744.

ODE ON SOLITUDE.

IAPPY the man whose wish and care

HA

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground:

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire:

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

Hours, days and years slide soft away;

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day:

Sound sleep by night, study and ease,

Together mixed; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please, With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus, unlamented, let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

CXXII.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame !

Quit, oh! quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
Oh! the pain, the bliss of dying.
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper; angels say,
'Sister spirit, come away!'
What is this absorbs me quite?

Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly !
O Grave! where is thy Victory?

O Death! where is thy Sting?