Now that his name, her noblest Bards among, Th' imperial City loudly hails, That proud distinction guards his rising song, When Envy's carping tongue assails; In sullen silence now she hears his praise, Nor sheds her canker'd spots upon his springing bays.
O MUSE! who rulest each melodious lay That floats along the gilded shell, Who the mute tenant of the watry way Canst teach, at pleasure, to excel The softest note harmonious Sorrow brings, When the expiring Swan her own sad requiem sings.
Thine be the praise, that pointing Romans guide The Stranger's eye, with proud desire That well he note the Man, whom Crowds decide Should boldly string the Latian lyre.-- Ah! when I charm, if still to charm be mine, Nymph of the warbling shell, be all the glory THINE!
BOOK THE FOURTH, ODE THE SEVENTH, IMITATED.
The snows dissolve, the rains no more pollute, Green are the sloping fields, and uplands wide, And green the trees luxuriant tresses shoot, And, in their daisied banks, the shrinking rivers glide.
Beauty, and Love, the blissful change have hail'd, While, in smooth mazes, o'er the painted mead, [1]Aglaia ventures, with her limbs unveil'd, Light thro' the dance each Sister-Grace to lead.
But O! reflect, that Sport, and Beauty, wing Th' unpausing Hour!--if Winter, cold and pale, Flies from the soft, and violet-mantled Spring, Summer, with sultry breath, absorbs the vernal gale.
Reflect, that Summer-glories pass away When mellow Autumn shakes her golden sheaves; While she, as Winter reassumes his sway, Speeds, with disorder'd vest, thro' rustling leaves.
But a short space the Moon illumes the skies; Yet she repairs her wanings, and again Silvers the vault of Night;--but no supplies, To feed their wasting fires, the lamps of Life obtain.
When our pale Form shall pensive vigils keep Where COLLINS, AKENSIDE, and SHENSTONE roam, Or quiet with the Despot, JOHNSON, sleep, In that murk cell, the Body's final home,
To senseless dust, and to a fleeting shade Changes the life-warm Being!--Ah! who knows If the next dawn our eye-lids may pervade? Darken'd and seal'd, perchance, in long, and last repose!
When vivid Thought's unceasing force assails, It shakes, from Life's frail glass, the ebbing sands; Their course run out, ah! what to us avails Our fame's high note, tho' swelling it expands!