NCE, I remember well the day,
'Twas ere the blooming sweets of May Had lost their freshest hues,
When every flower on every hill,
In every vale, had drunk its fill
Of sunshine and of dews.
'Twas that sweet season's loveliest prime
When Spring gives up the reins of time
To Summer's glowing hand,
And doubting mortals hardly know
By whose command the breezes blow
Which fan the smiling land.
'Twas then beside a green-wood shade
Which cloth'd a lawn's aspiring head
I urg'd my devious way,
With loitering steps, regardless where,
So soft, so genial was the air,
So wond'rous bright the day.
And now my eyes with transport rove
O'er all the blue expansive grove,
Unbroken by a cloud!
And now beneath delighted pass,
Where, winding through the deep-green grass,
A full-brimm'd river flow'd.
Begone, vile world; the learn'd, the wise,
The great, the busy, I despise,
And pity e'en the gay.
These, these are joys alone, I cry,
'Tis here, divine Philosophy,
Thou deign'st to fix thy throne!
Here, contemplation points the road
Thro' Nature's charms to Nature's God!
These, these, are joys alone!
Adieu, ye vain, low-thoughted cares,
Ye human hopes, and human fears,
Ye pleasures, and ye pains! -
While thus I spake, o'er all the soul
A philosophic calmness stole,
A Stoic stillness reigns.
The tyrant passions all subside,
Fear, anger, pity, shame, and pride,
No more my bosom move.
Yet still I felt, or seem'd to feel
A kind of visionary zeal
When lo a voice! a voice I hear!
'Twas Reason whisper'd in my ear
These monitory strains:
What mean'st thou, man? would'st thou unbind The ties which constitute thy kind,
The pleasures and the pains?
The same Almighty Power unseen,
Who spreads the gay or solemn scene
To Contemplation's eye:
Fix'd every movement of the soul,
Taught every wish its destined goal,
And quicken'd every joy.
He bids the tyrant passions rage,
He bids them war eternal wage,
And combat each his foe:
Till from dissensions concord rise,
And beauties from deformities,
And happiness from woe.
Art thou not man? and dar'st thou find
A bliss which leans not to mankind?
Presumptuous thought and vein !
Each bliss unshar'd is unenjoy'd,
Each power is weak, unless employ'd
Some social good to gain.
Some light, and shade, and warmth, and air,
With those exalted joys compare
Which active virtue feels.
When on she drags, as lawful prize,
Contempt, and Indolence, and Vice,
At her triumphant wheels.
As rest to labour still succeeds,
To man, while Virtue's glorious deeds
Employ his toilsome day,
This fair variety of things
Are merely life's refreshing springs
To soothe him on his way.
Enthusiast, go, unstring the lyre;
In vain thou sing'st if none admire,
How sweet soe'er the strain;
And is not thy o'erflowing mind,
Unless thou mixest with thy kind,
Benevolent in vain ?
Enthusiast, go, try every sense;
If not thy bliss, thy excellence
Thou yet hast learn'd to scan;
At least thy wants, thy weakness know,
And see them all uniting show,
That man was made for man.
LONG-EXPECTED one-and-twenty
Ling'ring year, at length is flown;
Pride and pleasure, pomp and plenty,
Great (Sir John), are now your own.
Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
Free to mortgage or to sell,
Wild as wind, and light as feather,
Bid the sons of thrift farewell.
Call the Betseys, Kates, and Jennies,
All the names that banish care;
Lavish of your grandsire's guineas,
Show the spirits of an heir.
All that prey on vice and folly,
Joy to see their quarry fly;
There the gamester, light and jolly,
There the lender, grave and sly.
Wealth, my lad, was made to wander,
Let it wander as it will;
Call the jockey, call the pander,
Bid them come and take their fill.
When the bonny blade carouses,
Pockets full, and spirits high-
What are acres? What are houses?
Only dirt, or wet or dry.
Should the guardian, friend, or mother,
Tell the woes of wilful waste,
Scorn their counsel, scorn their pother,
You can hang or drown at last!
On her completing her Thirty-Fifth Year
FT in danger, yet alive,
We are come to thirty-five;
Long may better years arrive,
|