Enlarged the former narrow bounds,

And added length to solemn sounds,

With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. - Let old Timotheus yield the prize Or both divide the crown;

He raised a mortal to the skies;

She drew an angel down!

BOOK THIRD

CXVII

ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM

VICISSITUDE

OW the golden Morn aloft

Now

Waves her dew-bespangled wing,
With vermeil cheek and whisper soft

She woos the tardy Spring:
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground,
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.

New-born flocks, in rustic dance,
Frisking ply their feeble feet;
Forgetful of their wintry trance

The birds his presence greet:
But chief, the sky-lark warbles high
His trembling thrilling ecstasy;

And lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid light.

9

Yesterday the sullen year

Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by:
Their raptures now that wildly flow
No yesterday nor morrow know;
'Tis Man alone that joy descries
With forward and reverted eyes.

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.

T. Gray

H

CXVIII

THE QUIET LIFE

APPY 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 mix'd; 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

Tell where I lie.

CXIX

A. Pope

THE BLIND BOY

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 't were 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

CXX

ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A

'T

TUB OF GOLD FISHES

WAS 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.