No music warbles through the grove, Aloud the driving tempest roars, In nature's aid let art supply With light and heat our little sphere; Rouse, rouse the fire, and pile it high, Light up a constellation here. Let Music sound the voice of joy! Yet time life's dreary winter brings, When mirth's gay tale shall please no more; Nor music charm-though Stella sings; Nor love, nor wine, the Spring restore. Catch then, O! catch the transient hour, THE WINTER'S WALK. BY THE SAME. BEHOLD, my fair, where'er we rove, Nor only through the wasted plain, Enlivening Hope and fond Desire Resign the heart to Spleen and Care : Scarce frighted Love maintains her fire, And Rapture saddens to despair. In groundless hope, and causeless fear, Unhappy man! behold thy doom ; Still changing with the changeful year, The slave of sunshine and of gloom. Tired with vain joys, and false alarms, HYMN. IN THE ORATORIO OF ABEL. How cheerful along the gay mead, Shall man, the great master of all, Forbid it, Devotion and Love. The Lord who such wonders could raise, And still can destroy with a nod, My lips shall incessantly praise, My soul shall be wrapp'd in my God! THE MISER AND PLUTUS. A FABLE. BY GAY. THE wind was high, the window shakes, Along the silent room he stalks, Had the deep earth her stores confined, This heart had known sweet peace of mind. But virtue's sold. Good Gods! what price Can recompense the pangs of vice! O bane of good! seducing cheat! Can man, weak man, thy power defeat! Gold banish'd honour from the mind, And only left the name behind ; Gold sow'd the world with every ill; Gold taught the murderer's sword to kill. 'Twas gold instructed coward hearts Whence is this wild ungrateful rant? Each sordid rascal's daily cant: Did I, base wretch! corrupt mankind? The fault's in thy rapacious mind. Because my blessings are abused Must I be censured, cursed, accused? E'en Virtue's self by knaves is made A cloak to carry on the trade; And power (when lodg'd in their possession) Grows tyranny, and rank oppression. Thus, when the villain crams his chest, Gold is the canker of the breast; 'Tis avarice, insolence, and pride, And every shocking vice beside : But when to virtuous hands 'tis given, It blesses, like the dews of heaven: Like Heaven it hears the orphan's cries, And wipes the tears from widows' eyes. Their crimes on gold shall Misers lay, Who pawn'd their sordid souls for pay? s3 |