No more perplex'd with worldly cares, HOLE. TO FOLLY. HAIL, Goddess of the vacant eye! I saw thee shake, in sportive mood, Source of the sweets that never cloy, No fiery spirits enter there To rouse the tingling nerves to pain, Thy balmy cups, unbought with care, Swim lightly o'er the tender brain; Bland as the milky streams they flow, Nor leave the pungent dregs of woe. Gay partner of the schoolboy band, Who charm'd the starting tear away; What though beneath the pedant's hand My flaxen head devoted lay, Oft were my truant footsteps seen My listless limbs more languid grew: I to the world's wide circle flew, Thy crowded clamorous orgies hold, Thy devious path, sweet Power, I join'd: A thousand idle pranks we play'd; But, Folly, why prolong my verse Thy triumphs on the youthful stage For now, even now in riper years, And clasp thee to my thoughtless breast; Enough that in Presumption's mien Beneath my roof thou ne'er art seen: That, as my harmless course I run, MERCER. TO À FOUNTAIN. SEQUESTER'D fountain! ever pure, A votive wreath I twine. Fair fountain! on thy margin green And spreading boughs thy bosom screen Here may the Spring her flowerets strew, There if a doxy or a wife Receive the wretch escaped from strife; While thus the poor and wretched find The' asylum for a wounded mind,— Distemper'd men there are, estranged from home, Cold to an angel's kind embrace, Cheerless amid a blooming race, And dead to comforts in a princely dome: Men in the lap of Fortune nursed, With all her froward humours cursed, And teased by wishes ever on the wing; Who, wandering still through Folly's maze, In search of bliss consume their days, Nor taste her genuine draught at Nature's spring. Yet such the men who lead the gay, The pride and patterns of the day, Whose high prized friendship fools and strangers boast; Blush, thou! to court their barren fame; Let Home, sweet Home, thy presence claim, And those enjoy thy smiles who love thee most! MERCER. TO TRANQUILLITY. TRANQUILLITY! thou better name For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, To thee I gave my early youth, And left the bark, and bless'd the steadfast shore, Ere yet the tempest rose, and scared me with its roar. Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, Thy spirit rests, Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through the' accustom'd mead; And when the gust of Autumn crowds Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, [moon. Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding VOL. III. BB |