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"What pleasures, vain mistaken wretch, are thine!" (Virtue with scorn reply'd) "who sleep'st in ease Insensate; whose soft limbs the toil decline That seasons bliss, and makes enjoyment please. Draining the copious bowl, ere thirst require; Feasting, ere hunger to the feast invite :
Whose tasteless joys anticipate desire;
The sparkling nectar, cool'd with summer snows
Th' imperfect sleep, that lulls thy languid sense
From the long, ling'ring space, that lengthiens out the day.
From bounteous nature's unexhausted stores
Hurl'd thee from heaven, th' immortals' blissful place
Fond wretch, that vainly weenest all delight
To gratify the sense reserv'd for thee!
Yet the most pleasing object to the sight, Thine own fair action, never didst thou see.
Tho' lull'd with softest sounds thou liest along;
Soft music, warbling voices, melting lays;
Ne'er didst thou hear, more sweet than sweetest song Charming the soul, thou ne'er didst hear thy praise! No-To thy revels let the fool repair:
To such, go smooth thy speech; and spread thy tempting snare.
Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies! A youth of follies; an old age of cares: Young, yet enervate; old, yet never wise; Vice wastes their vigour, and their mind impairs. Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ; All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, With sorrow, to the verge of life they tend. Griev'd with the present; of the past asham'd; They live, and are despis'd: they die, nor more are nam'd.
But with the gods, and godlike men, I dwell: Me, his supreme delight, th' Almighty Sire Regards well-pleas'd: whatever works excel, All or divine, or human, I inspire.
Counsel with strength, and industry with art, In union meet conjoin'd, with me reside:
My dictates arm, instruct, and mend the heart;
With me, true friendship dwells: she deigns to bind
Nor need my friends the various costly feast; Hunger to them th' effects of art supplies; Labour prepares their weary limbs to rest; Sweet is their sleep: light, cheerful, strong they rise. Thro' health, thro' joy, thro' pleasure and renown, They tread my paths; and by a soft descent, At length to age all gently sinking down, Look back with transport on a life well-spent ; In which, no hour flew unimprov'd away;
In which, some generous deed distinguish'd every day.
And when, the destin'd term at length complete, Their ashes rest in peace; eternal fame
Sounds wide their praise: triumphant over fate, In sacred song, for ever lives their name.
This, Hercules, is happiness! obey
My voice, and live.
Let thy celestial birth
Lift, and enlarge, thy thoughts. Behold the way That leads to fame; and raises thee from earth Immortal! Lo, I guide thy steps. Arise,
Pursue the glorious path; and claim thy native skies.”
Her words breathe fire celestial, and impart
The generous flame: with great intent his heart
Sloth in her native form he now beheld;
No more the rosy bloom in sweet disguise Masks her dissembled looks: each borrow'd grace Leaves her wan cheek; pale sickness clouds her eyes, Livid and sunk, and passions dim her face.
As when fair Iris has a while display'd
Her watry arch, with gaudy painture gay;
While yet we gaze, the glorious colours fade, And from our wonder gently steal away:
Where shone the beauteous phantom erst so bright, Now low'rs the low-hung cloud, all gloomy to the sight.
But Virtue more engaging all the while Disclos'd new charms; more lovely, more serene; Beaming sweet influence.
A milder smile
Soften'd the terrors of her lofty mien.
"Lead, goddess, I am thine! (transported cry'd Alcides :) O propitious pow'r, thy way
Teach me possess my soul; be thou my guide: From thee, O never, never let me stray!"
While ardent thus the youth his vows address'd; With all the goddess fill'd, already glow'd his breast.
The heav'nly maid with strength divine endu'd
From fiercest monsters, thro' her pow
Part of the THIRD ODE of the THIRD BOOK of HORACE, imitated.
THE man, whose mind, on virtue bent,
Not the proud tyrant's fiercest threat,
Not Jove's dread bolt, that shakes the pole,
With all its power can shake.
His courage chance and fate defies,
WHEN Music, heavenly Maid! was young,
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness rul'd the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
And where her sweetest theme she chose,
He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down,
The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;
And ever and anon he beat
The doubling drum with furious heat;
And tho' sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side
Her soul-subduing voice apply'd,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien,
While each strain'd ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head.
Thy numbers, Jealousy! to nought were fix'd;
Sad proof of thy distressful state;
Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.
With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd,
Pale Melancholy sat retir'd,