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Come, let us then the present hour employ; Nor to the faithless future trust our joy; Let us from care the wrinkled forehead smooth, Let us in age revive the sweets of youth, Pour out rich wines, the costly ointments bring, With all the blooming flow'rs that grace the spring; Let the fresh violet and the new-born rose A smiling chaplet for our brows compose. Entwine our templets, ere ye die, ye flow'rs! Short is your date of life, and short is ours. Let's print each hour with pleasure, ere it pass, Leave monuments of joy in every place, That may our revellings and us survive, Shew we once were, and teach our sons to live. Lose not the little portion fate allows,
That is man's lot-this all the heaven he knows.
Thus they, who from the ways of truth decline, Pervert their reason to confirm their sin;
The mists of sensual lust so cloud their eye,
WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong,
Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye
If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds,
ODE ON EOLUS's HARP.
ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air,
Who hymn your God amid the secret grove; Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,
And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.
Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid!
With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart, Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who dy'd of love, these sweet complainings part.
But hark! that strain was of a graver tone;
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.
Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung
Methinks I hear the full celestial choir,
Thro' heav'n's high dome their awful anthem raise;
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire To swell the lofty hymn, from praise to praise.
Let me, ye wandring spirits of the wind,
Who, as wild fancy prompts you touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus join'd, For till you cease, my muse forgets to sing.
AN ORIENTAL ECLOGUE.
Scene, The Desert.-Time, Mid-Day.
IN silent horror o'er the boundless waste
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
"Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, "When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"
Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst or pinching hunger that I find: