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(At ease reclin'd in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud!
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The panting herds repose,
The busy murmur glows!
And float amid the liquid noon *;
Quick-glancing to the sunt.
To Contemplation's sober eget,
Shall end where they began.
In Fortune's varying colours drest!
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low,
The sportive kind reply,
A solitary fly!
------- Sporting with quick glance, Shew to the sun their way'd coats dropt with gold.
Milton's Paradise Lost. b. 7. While insects from the threshold preach, &c Mr. Green in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, vol. v, p. 161.
No painted plumage to display:
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,
Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.
TWAS on a lofty vase's side,
The azure fow'rs that blow,
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The velvet of her paws,
She saw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the tide,
The Genii of the stream;
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
With many an ardent wish,
What Cat's averse to fish??
Presumpt'ous maid! with looks intent,
Nor knew the gulf between:
She tumbled headlong in.
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceiv'd,
And be with caution bold: *
Nor all that glisters gold.
A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. VE distant Spires! ye antique Tow'rs!
1 That crown the wat,'ry glade Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's* holy shade; .
Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey;
His silver winding, way:
* King Henry VI. founder of the College
Ah happy hills ! ah pleasing-shade!
Ah fields beloy'd in vain!
A stranger yet to pain!
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
To breathe a second spring.
Full many a sprightly race,
The paths of pleasure trace,
The captive linnet which enthral?
Or urge the flying ball?
While some, on earnest bus'ness bent,
Their murm'ring labours ply
To sweeten liberty;
And unknown regions dare descry:
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest!
The sunshine of the breast;
* And bees their honey redolent of spring.
Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. System. The
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue
And lively cheer of vigour born;
That fly th’approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
Nor care beyond to-day;
And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah! tell them they are men.
These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
And Shame, that skulks behind;
That inly gnaws the secret heart!
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
And grinning Infamy:
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And moody Madness * laughing wild
Amid severest woes. * And madness laughing in his ireful mood.
Dryden's Fable of Palemon and Areile.