POSTHUMOUS POEMS AND FRAGMENTS. ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. Left unfinished by Mr. Gray. With additions by Mr. Mason, distinguished by inverted commas. Now the golden morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, The sleeping fragrance from the ground; And lightly o'er the living scene Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, But chief, the sky-lark warbles high And, lessening from the dazzled sight, Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, “With health, with harmony, and love.” 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 Or deepest shades, that dimly lour, And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day. Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch, that long has toss'd 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: E To these, if Hebe's self should bring The purest cup from pleasure's spring, Say, can they taste the flavour high Of sober, simple, genuine joy? 'Mark ambition's march sublime Phantoms of danger, death, and dread, 'Happier he, the peasant, far, 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.' |