ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM VICISSITUDE. [Left unfinished by Mr. Gray. With Additions, in Italics, by the late Rev. Mr. Mason.] Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, The sleeping fragrance from the ground; Scatters his freshest, tend'rest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, 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. Rise, my Soul! on wings of fire, Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; 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 lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day. Still, where rosy Pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, And blended form, with artful strife, See the Wretch, that long has tost And breathe, and walk again The meanest flow'ret of the vale, Humble Quiet builds her cell Near the source whence Pleasure flows; * She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. While far below the madding Crowd Mark where Indolence, and Pride, So Milton accents the word: "On the crystalline sky, in sapphire thron❜d." Par. Lost, Book vi. v. 772. Say, can they taste the flavour high Mark Ambition's march sublime Up to Power's meridian height; While pale-ey'd Envy sees him climb, And sickens at the sight. Phantoms of Danger, Death, and Dread, Float hourly round Ambition's head; While Spleen, within his rival's breast, Sits brooding on her scorpion nest. Happier he, the Peasant, far, From the pangs of Passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air Of rugged Penury. He, when his morning task is done, Can slumber in the noontide sun; |