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Now the golden Morn aloft
Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
Smiles on past misfortune's brow
While hope prolongs our happier hour
Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See the wretch that long has tost
The simplest note that swells the gale,
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,
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
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;
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 !
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;
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
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
And all thy sons, O Nature! learn my tale.
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 trees in summer yield him shade,
Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Sound sleep by night; study and ease