SAPPHIC ODE. How easy is his life, and free, Who, urg'd by no necessity, Eats cheerful bread, and over night does pay No suitor such a mean estate This man does need no bolts nor locks, Nor needs he starts when any knocks, But may on careless pillow lie and snore, With a wide open door. Trouble and danger wealth attend, An useful but a dangerous friend, Who makes us pay, e'er we can be releas'd, Quadruple interest. Let's live to day then for to morrow, The fool's too provident will borrow A thing, which, through chance or infirmity, 'Tis odds he ne'er may see. Spend all then ere you go to Heaven, So with the world you will make even; And men discharge by dying Nature's score, Which done, we owe no more, THE MORNING QUATRAINS. THE cock has crow'd an hour ago, We have out-done the work of night, Hark! hark! the watchful chanticler To strew the way Sol's steeds must tread. Xanthus and Æthon harness'd are, The sable cheeks of sullen Night Are streak'd with rosy streams of light, Now doors and windows are unbarr'd, The chimnies now to smoke begin, Now through the morning doors behold Hob yokes his oxen to the team, Fair Amarillis drives her flocks, The sleek-fac'd schoolboy satchel takes, The fore-horse gingles on the road, None can that piercing sight evade, NOON QUATRAINS. THE Day grows hot, and darts his rays His early glories were benign, The grazing herds now droop and pant, The lagging ox is now unbound, Cellars and grottos now are best At her transparent window there That, like a Sun set round with ray, Into a bright and glorious day; And now thy blackest garment wear; The breasts and eyes have me deceiv'd; Oh, Night! the height of my desire, Canst thou put on so black attire. That I by none can be perceiv'd, Oh! that my dusky goddess could Heaven's torches, as to damp their fire, That endless so might be the night, THE NIGHT. WRITTEN BY MONSIEUR LE COMTE DE CREMAIL. STANZES. Ou, Night! by me so oft requir'd, Oh, Night! so welcome to my eyes, This dreadful shade thy curtain draws, Spread o'er th Earth thy sable veil, That darkness seems to day t' improve; For other light I do need none But only that of mine own love; And all light else offends my sight, Oblivion of our forepass'd woes, Of souls that languish in despair, EVENING QUATRAINS. THE day's grown old, the fainting Sun With labour spent, and thirst opprest, The shadows now so long do grow, A very little, little flock Shades thrice the ground that it would stock; These being brought into the fold, The cock now to the roost is prest, And now on benches all are sat NIGHT QUATRAINS. THE Sun is set, and gone to sleep From whence great rolls of smoke arise And now from the Iberian vales No ray of light the heart to cheer, Perhaps to him they torches are, Who guide Night's sovereign's drowsy car, Or else those little sparks of light That's all the light we now receive, The rail now cracks in fields and meads, And wary men bolt out the thief. The fire's new rak'd, and hearth swept clean, By Madge, the dirty kitchen quean; The goblin now the fool alarms, The drunkard now supinely snores, The sober now and chaste are blest We should so live, then, that we may, ODE. Good night, my love, may gentle rest There, whilst your eyes shall grace the day, Sigh such a woeful time away, As never yet poor lover had. Yet to this endless solitude There is one dangerous step to pass, To one that loves your sight so rude, As flesh and blood is loth to pass. But I will take it, to express I worthily your favours wore; ODE DE MONSIEUR RACAN. INGRATEFUL Cause of all my harms, 1 go to seek, amidst alarms, My death, or liberty; And that's all now I've left to do, The king his towns sees desert made, The drudge who would all get, all save, His plains with armed troops o'erspread, Like a brute beast both feeds and lies; Violence does control; Prone to the earth, he digs bis grave, All's fire and sword before his eyes, And in the very labour dies. Excess of ill-got, ill-kept pelf, Does only death and danger breed; But yet, alas ! my hope is vain Whilst one rich worldling starves himself To put a period to my pain, With what would thousand others feed. By any desperate ways; 'Tis you that hold my life enchain'd, By which we see what wealth and pow'r, And (under Heaven) yon command, Although they make men rich and great, And only you, my days. The sweets of life do often sour, And gull ambition with a cheat. Nor is he happier than these, Who in a moderate estate, Where he might safely live at ease, Has lusts that are immoderate. For he, by those desires misled, Quits his own vine's securing shade, With his loud thunder all to shake, T'expose his naked, empty head, To all the storms man's peace invade. Nor is he happy who is trim, Trick'd up in favours of the fair, Mirrours, with every breath made dim, And in worst torments manifest Birds, caught in every wanton snare. My firm fidelity; Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss, Or that my reason set me free, Does ofter far, than serve, enslave, And with the magic of a kiss, Destroys whom she was made to save. And vainer man to make it so, Who gives his miseries increase There are no ills but what we make, Heav'N, what an age is this! what race By giving shapes and names to things; nf giants are sprung up, that dare Which is the dangerous mistake Thus fiy in the Almighty's face, That causes all our sufferings. And with his providence make wap ! We call that sickness, which is health, I can go no where but I meet That persecution, which is grace; With malecontents and mutineers, That poverty, which is true wealti, As if in life was nothing sweet, And that dishonour, which is praise. And we must blessings reap in tears Providence watches over all, O senseless man! that murmurs still And that with an impartial eye ; For happiness, and does not know, And if to misery we fall, Even though he might enjoy his will, "Tis through our own infirmity. What he would have to make him so. "Tis want of foresight makes the bold Is it true happiness to be Ambitious youth to danger climb; By undiscerning Fortune plac'd, And want of virtue, when the old In the most eminent degree, At persecntion do repine. Where few arrive, and none stand fast? Alas! our time is here so short, Titles and wealth are Fortune's toils, That in what state soe'er 'tis spent, Wherewith the vain themselves ensnare: Of joy or woe, does not import, The great are proud of borrow'd spoils, Provided it be innocent. The miser's plenty breeds his care, But we may make it pleasant too, The one supinely yawns at rest, If we will take our measures right, Th’other eternally doth toil; And not what Heav'n has done, unde Each of them equally a beast, By an unruly appetite. A pamper'd horse, or lab'ring moil, 'Tis contentation that alone The titulados oft disgracd, Can make us happy here below; By public hate or private frown, And when this little life is gone, And he whose hand the creature rais'a, Will lift us up to four'n toon llas yet a foot to kick him dowo, A very little satines One that some seeds of virtue had ; An honest and a grateful heart; But one run resolutely niad, And who would more than will suffice, A fiend, a fury, and a beast! Does covet more than is his part. Or a demoniac at least, That man is happy in his share, Who, without sense of sin or shame, Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed, At nothivg but dire mischiefs aim, (name. Whose necessaries bound his care, Egg'd by the prince of fiends, and Legion is bis And honest labour makes his bed. Alas! my reason's overcast, Clearly dismounted from his throne, Banish'd his empire, filed and gone ! Will neither speak himself, nor hear. And in his room An infamous usurper's come, Who from ihe busy world retires, Whose name is sounding in mine ear To be more useful to it still, Like that, methi ks, of Oliver. And to no greater goori aspires, Nav, I remember in his life But only the eschewing ill. Such a disease as mine was mighty rife, Who, with his angle and his books, And yet, methinks, it cannot be, Can think the longest day well spent, That he And praises God when back he looks, Should be crept into me; And finds that all was innocent. My skin could ne'er contain sure so much evil, Nor any place but llell can hold so great a devil. This man is happier far than he Whom public business oft betrays, But by its symptoms now I know Through labyrinths of policy, What 'tis that does torment me so; To crooked and forbidden ways. "Tis a disease, The world is full of beaten roads, As great a fiend almost as these, That drinks up all my better blood, And leaves the rest a standing pool, And though I ever little understood, Makes me a thousand times more fool. Untrolden paths are then the best, Fumes up dark vapours to my brain, Where the frequented are unsure ; Creates burnt choler in my breast, And he comes soonest to his rest, And of these nobler parts possest, Whose journey has been most secure. Tyrannically there does reign. Oh! when (kind Heaven) shall I be well again! It is content alone that makes Our pilgrimage a pleasure here ; Accursed Melancholy! it was sin And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes First brought thee in; An ill commodity too dear. Sin lodg'd thee first in our first father's breast, Put he bas fortunes worst withstood, By sin tlou’rt nourish'd, and by sio increas'd, And happiness can never miss, Thou'rt man's own creature, he has giv'n thee Can covet naught, but where he stood, pow'r The sweets of life thus to devour : To niake us shun the cheerful light, Where the sly tempter ambush'd lies, To make the disconiented soul his prize. There the progenitor of guile Accosts as in th' old serpent's style; What in the name of wonder's this Rails at the world as well as we, Which lies so heavy at my heart, Nay, Providener itself 's not free: That I ev'u death itself could kiss, Proceeding then to aris of Hattery, And think it were the greatest bliss He there extols our valour and our parts, Even at this moment to depart! Spriadis all bis nets to catch our incarts, Life, even to the wretched clear, Concluding thus : “ What generous mind Would longer bere draw breath, That might so sure a refuge find In the repose of death !” Which having said, he to our choice presents And wade through thousand lives to lose my own. AN his destroying instruments, Swords and stilettos, halters, pistols, knives, Yea, Nature never taught me bloody rules, Poisons, both quick and slow, to end our lives Nor was 1 yet with vicious precept bred ; Or if we like none of those fine devices, And now my virtue paints my cheeks in gules, He then presents us pools and precipices; To check me for the wicked thing I said. Or to let ont, or suffocate our breath, Which breathes forth borrour to proclaim, Araunt, thou deril, Melancholy ! Thou grave and sober folly ! PINDARIC ODE. |