Behold our flocks are scatt'ring o'er the plain,
Proceed we then to chaunt the Sylvan strain.

DAPHNI S.

Come, then, Menalcas! tuneful fhepherd rife, Thy song fhall praise the SOVEREIGN of the skies Whilft I will join in that exalted theme,

Nor more repeat the faithlefs fair-one's name!

ODE

ODE TO A FRIEND. 1758.

I.

HY fo tim'rous, gentle friend?

WH

Pri'thee, banish care and dread;

Of harmless pleasure, know no end,
Till thou'rt number'd with the dead.

II.

What can keep thee from the grave,
If it please th' Almighty pow'r ?
What destroy thee if he'll fave,
Or rob thee of the paffing hour?

III.

What should move the pow'r divine,
Thee, good mortal, to destroy?
Then, with me, right-pleafing join,
To gild the wing'd time with joy.

IV.

But not in pleasure's Syren-charms,
I mean to lose the heart:

I know that mirth has fad alarms

Where wisdom has no part.

V. But

V.

But let paffion's cafy gale,

Thy bark with rapture sweep, While powerful reason fhall prevail And guide her o'er the deep.

VI.

Then chearful flow thy tranfient breath,

With courage arm thy heart; Immortal life begins in death,

And smiles at his grim dart.

EPISTOLARY ODE

TO A FRIEND.

L

I.

IKE as Lybia's burning fand,
Or the parch'd Arabian plain,
Which gentle Eurus never fann'd,
Wou'd drink th' unfathomable main-
So is the wretch who endless craves,

And restless pines in ev'ry state-
O place him with the worst of flaves,
Whether in high or low estate.
Heap him around with maffy wealth,
High-throne him on the feat of pow'r;
Each gen'rous joy he'll ufe by stealth,
While want fhall prey on ev'r; hour.
Let glitt❜ring pomp allure his foul,
Or nobler fame his mind dilate;
Thro' complicated plagues he'll roll,
And dire vexations ftill create.

The first-born mortal upon earth,

When round him fmiling Nature play'd, With discontent was void of mirth,

Tho' he o'er ev'ry creature sway'd.

II.

He who contented fpends his days-
Calm as the clear unruffled ftream,
His life in gentle current ftrays,
Mild as the maiden's filver dream.
Be he born to till the field,

Or in war the fword to wield;
If he o'er the midnight oil,
Wates his life in learned toil,
Studious to inftruct mankind
Where true happiness to find;
Or if o'er the lawless main,

He roams in fearch of fordid gain;
Or forts with nobles in proud ease,
Or humble fwains in cottages;
Be he with content but bleft-

He's the happy man confeft!

III.

Liften, dear Strephon to my fong-
O herd not with ambitious slaves,
Nor join thou with the vulgar throng-
Their joys unstable as the waves.
Strephon, thrice bleft with fruitful plains,
The lover of a fapient theme
Strephon, whofe fweetly-foothing ftrains
Flow gently as thy native ftream-

O leave