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,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads
Approaching comfort view :
The hues of bliss more brightly glow
Chastised by sabler tints of woe,
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life
See the wretch that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost

And breathe and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,

The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

CLIII

T. Gray

ODE TO SIMPLICITY

O Thou, by Nature taught

To breathe her genuine thought

In numbers warmly pure, and sweetly strong;

Who first, on mountains wild,

In Fancy, loveliest child,

Thy, babe, or Pleasure's, nursed the powers of song!

Thou, who with hermit heart,
Disdain'st the wealth of art,

And gauds, and pageant weeds, and trailing pall,
But com'st, a decent maid

In Attic robe array'd,

O chaste, unboastful Nymph, to thee I call!

By all the honey'd store

On Hybla's thymy shore,

By all her blooms and mingled murmurs dear⚫ By her whose love-lorn woe

In evening musings slow

Soothed sweetly sad Electra's poet's ear

By old Cephisus deep,

Who spread his wavy sweep

In warbled wanderings round thy green retreat; On whose enamell'd side,

When holy Freedom died,

No equal haunt allured thy future feet :-
O sister meek of Truth,

To my admiring youth

Thy sober aid and native charms infuse !
The flowers that sweetest breathe,
Though Beauty cull'd the wreath,

Still ask thy hand to range their order'd hues.

While Rome could none esteem

But Virtue's patriot theme,

You loved her hills, and led her laureat band; But stay'd to sing alone

To one distinguish'd throne;

And turn'd thy face, and fled her alter'd land.

No more, in hall or bower,

The Passions own thy power;

Love, only Love, her forceless numbers mean : For thou hast left her shrine;

Nor olive more, nor vine,

Shall gain thy feet to bless the servile scene.

Though taste, though genius, bless

To some divine excess,

Faints the cold work till thou inspire the whole; What each, what all supply

May court, may charm our eye;

Thou, only thou, canst raise the meeting soul !

Of these let others ask

To aid some mighty task;

I only seek to find thy temperate vale;
Where oft my reed might sound
To maids and shepherds round,

And all thy sons, O Nature ! learn my tale.

CLIV

SOLITUDE

W. Collins

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixt, sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

say what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ;

What are the blessings of the sight,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy:
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

C. Cibber

CLVI

ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES

'Twas on a lofty vase's side,

Where China's gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow,

Demurest of the tabby kind

The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared:

The fair round face, the snowy beard,

The velvet of her paws,

Her coat that with the tortoise vies,

Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes—
She saw, and purr'd applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide.

The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue
Through richest purple, to the vie
Betray'd a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw

With many an ardent wish

She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize-
What female heart can gold despise?
What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Again she stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between-
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled-
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood
She mew'd to every watery God
Some speedy aid to send :-

-

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr d,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard-
A favourite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold:

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold!

T. Gray

CLVII

TO CHARLOTTE PULTENEY

Timely blossom, Infant fair,

Fondling of a happy pair,

Every morn and every night

Their solicitous delight,

Sleeping, waking, still at ease.