A wither'd, time-deflower'd old maid, That ne'er enjoy'd Love's ever sacred flame. And elevates her hands, and plods upon her book. Next comes illiberal scambling Avarice, Then Vanity and Affectation nice- And squeamishly she knits her scornful brow. They wait thy call, and mourn thy long delay: ODE XI. THE VANITY OF WEALTH. BY SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. No more, thus brooding o'er yon heap, Or learn the Muse's moral lay; Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl; To virtuous Love resign thy breast, And be by blessing Beauty blest. Thus taste the feast by Nature spread, Ere Youth and all its joys are fled; Come, taste with me the balm of life, Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife. I boast, whate'er for man was meant, In health, and STELLA, and content; And scorn oh! let that scorn be thine! Mere things of clay, that dig the mine. ODE XII. THE HAPPINESS OF A MODERATE FORTUNE, AND MODERATE DESIRES. FROM THE FRENCH OF MR. GRESSET. BY JOHN LANGHORNE, D.D. O GODDESS of the golden mean, Thy only subjects are the wise. See, foster'd in thy fav'ring shade, Had never form'd the tuneful line; In vain you slight the flowery crown, That fame wreaths round the favour'd head! Whilst laurel'd victory and renown Their heroes from thy shades have led; There form'd, from courtly softness free, By rigid virtue and by thee. By thee were form'd, from cities far, Thrice happy he, on whose calm breast Whose wishes never learnt to stray. Far from the crowd's low-thoughted strife, A length of rent-roll, or of name: While thunder-sounding storms the mountain pine o'erwhelm. |