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The well inform'd philosopher
And hopes, in spite of pain ;
And Nature laughs again.
Expect a brighter sky.
And lays his arrows by.
And let thy strength be seen;
A Reflection on the foregoing Ode. And is this all ? Can reason do no more, *Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore? Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea, The Christian has an art unknown to thee. He holds no parley with unmanly fears ; Where duty bids, he confidently steers, Faces a thousand dangers at her call, And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED
IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES.
The azure flowers, that blow;
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd ;
The velvet of her paws,
Still had she gaz'd; but ’midst the tide
The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
With many an ardent wish,
What cat's averse to fish ?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent
Nor knew the gulf between :
She tumbled headlong in.
Some speedy aid to send.
A fav’rite has no friend!
Nor all that glisters gold.
FALSE FRIENDS AND TRUE.*
* This poem, from its excellence, has been attributed to Shakspeare.
And there sung the doleful'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, nor would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by ; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn’st in vain ; None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee. King Pandion, he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst, as fickle Fortune smil'd, Thou and I were both beguild. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy like the wind ;. Faithful friends are hard to find, Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call ; And with such like flattering, * Pity but he were a king. : If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
TO THE MOON.
So much exhausted, and so faint,
Watching oft the kneeling saintHearing his groans float on the gale No wonder thou art tir'd and pale.
Yet have I often seen thee bring
Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep; Then, with a smile, their lustre fling
Full on the dark and roaring deep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, And when near lost the tossing sail.
Sure, that passing blush deceives;
For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold ! Love our bosoms seldom leaves ;
But thou art of a different mould.