LO! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, The untaught harmony of spring: Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch B Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined 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; And float amid the liquid noon : To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of Man : And they that creep, and they that fly, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes. 'TWAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed Her conscious tail her joy declared: The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, She saw; and purr'd applause. |